UN1V 


.  OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 


NOTRE -DAME  DE  PARIS 


BY 


VICTOR  HUGO 


TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  FRENCH 

BY 

ISABEL   F.   HAPGOOD 


VOL.   I 


NEW  YOKK 
THOMAS   Y.    CROWELL   &   CO. 


COPYRIGHT,  1888,  BY 
T.    Y.   CEOWELL    &   Co. 


C.  .1.  I'KTKUS  &  SON,  KOSTON. 


A  FEW  years  ago,  while  visiting  or,  rather,  rummaging  about 
Notre-Dame,  the  author  of  this  book  found,  in  an  obscure 
nook  of  one  of  the  towers,  the  following  word,  engraved  by 
hand  upon  the  wall :  — 

'ANAFKH. 

These  Greek  capitals,  black  with  age,  and  quite  deeply 
graven  in  the  stone,  with  I  know  not  what  signs  peculiar 
to  Gothic  caligraphy  imprinted  upon  their  forms  and  upon 
their  attitudes,  as  though  with  the  purpose  of  revealing  that 
it  had  been  a  hand  of  the  Middle  Ages  which  had  inscribed 
them  there,  and  especially  the  fatal  and  melancholy  meaning 
contained  in  them,  struck  the  author  deeply. 

He  questioned  himself ;  he  sought  to  divine  who  could  have 
been  that  soul  in  torment  which  had  not  been  willing  to  quit 
this  world  without  leaving  this  stigma  of  crime  or  unhappi- 
ness  upon  the  brow  of  the  ancient  church. 

Afterwards,  the  wall  was  whitewashed  or  scraped  down,  I 
know  not  which,  and  the  inscription  disappeared.  Eor  it  is 


iv  PREFACE. 

thus  that  people  have  been  in  the  habit  of  proceeding  with 
the  marvellous  churches  of  the  Middle  Ages  for  the  last  two 
hundred  years.  Mutilations  come  to  them  from  every  quar- 
ter, from  within  as  well  as  from  without.  The  priest  white- 
washes them,  the  archdeacon  scrapes  them  down ;  then  the 
populace  arrives  and  demolishes  them. 

Thus,  with  the  exception  of  the  fragile  memory  which  the 
author  of  this  book  here  consecrates  to  it,  there  remains 
to-day  nothing  whatever  of  the  mysterious  word  engraved 
within  the  gloomy  tower  of  Notre-Dame,  —  nothing  of  the 
destiny  which  it  so  sadly  summed  up.  The  man  who  wrote 
that  word  upon  the  wall  disappeared  from  the  midst  of  the 
generations  of  man  many  centuries  ago ;  the  word,  in  its  turn, 
has  been  effaced  from  the  wall  of  the  church ;  the  church 
will,  perhaps,  itself  soon  disappear  from  the  face  of  the 
earth. 

It  is  upon  this  word  that  this  book  is  founded. 

MARCH.  1831. 


VOLUME   I. 

BOOK  FIRST. 

CHAPTER 

I.     The  Grand  Hall 1 

II.     Pierre  Gringoire 17 

III.  Monsieur  the  Cardinal 28 

IV.  Master  Jacques  Coppenole 36 

V.     Quasimodo 46 

VI.     Esmeralda 54 

BOOK  SECOND. 

I.     From  Charybdis  to  Scylla 57 

II.     The  Place  de  Greve 61 

III.  Kisses  for  Blows 64 

IV.  The  Inconveniences  of  Following  a  Pretty  Woman  through 

the  Streets  in  the  Evening 75 

V.     Result  of  the  Dangers 80 

VI.     The  Broken  Jug 83 

VII.     A  Bridal  Night 103 

BOOK  THIRD. 

I.    'Xotre-Dame 114 

II.     A  Bird's-eye  View  of  Paris    „ 124 

V 


VI  CONTENTS. 

BOOK  FOURTH. 

I.     Good  Souls 150 

II.     Claude  Frollo 155 

III.  Immanis  Pecoris  Gustos,  Immanior  Ipse 161 

IV.  The  Dog  and  his  Master 169 

V.    More  about  Claude  Frollo 171 

VI.    Unpopularity 178 

BOOK  FIFTH. 

I.    Abbas  Beati  Martini 180 

II.    This  will  Kill  That 191 

BOOK  SIXTH. 

I.     An  Impartial  Glance  at  the  Ancient  Magistracy 207 

II.     The  Rat-hole 219 

III.  History  of  a  Leavened  Cake  of  Maize 224 

IV.  A  Tear  for  a  Drop  of  Water 246 

V.    End  of  the  Story  of  the  Cake 256 


BOOK    FIRST. 


CHAPTER  1. 

THE    GRAND    HALL. 

THREE  hundred  and  forty-eight  years,  six  months,  and  nine- 
teen days  ago  to-day,  the  Parisians  awoke  to  the  sound  of  all 
the  bells  in  the  triple  circuit  of  the  city,  the  university,  and 
the  town  ringing  a  full  peal. 

The  sixth  of  January,  1482,  is  not,  however,  a  day  of  which 
history  has  preserved  the  memory.  There  was  nothing  iiota- 
able  in  the  event  which  thus  set  the  bells  and  the  bourgeois 
of  Paris  in  a  ferment  from  early  morning.  It  was  neither  an 
assault  by  the  Picards  nor  the  Burgundians,  nor  a  hunt  led 
along  in  procession,  nor  a  revolt  of  scholars  in  the  town  of 
Laas,  nor  an  entry  of  "our  much  dread  lord,  monsieur  the 
king,"  nor  even  a  pretty  hanging  of  male  and  female  thieves 
by  the  courts  of  Paris.  Neither  was  it  the  arrival,  so  frequent 
in  the  fifteenth  century,  of  some  plumed  and  bedizened  em- 
bassy. It  was  barely  two  days  since  the  last  cavalcade  of 
that  nature,  that  of  the  Flemish  ambassadors  charged  with 
concluding  the  marriage  between  the  dauphin  and  Marguerite 
of  Flanders,  had  made  its  entry  into  Paris,  to  the  great  annoy- 
ance of  M.  le  Cardinal  de  Bourbon,  who,  for  the  sakS  of  pleas- 
ing the  king,  had  been  obliged  to  assume  an  amiable  mien 
towards  this  whole  rustic  rabble  of  Flemish  burgomasters,  and 
to  regale  them  at  his  Hotel  de  Bourbon,  with  a  very  "  pretty 

1 


2  NOTRE-DAME. 

morality,  allegorical  satire,  and  farce,"  while  a  driving  rain 
drenched  the  magnificent  tapestries  at  his  door. 

What  put  the  "  whole  population  of  Paris  in  commotion,"  as 
Jehan  de  Troyes  expresses  it,  on  the  sixth  of  January,  was 
the  double  solemnity,  united  from  time  immemorial,  of  the 
Epiphany  and  the  Feast  of  Fools. 

On  that  day,  there  was  to  be  a  bonfire  on  the  Place  de 
Greve,  a  maypole  at  the  Chapelle  de  Braque,  and  a  mystery  at 
the  Palais  de  Justice.  It  had  been  cried,  to  the  sound  of  the 
trumpet,  the  preceding  evening  at  all  the  cross  roads,  by  the 
provost's  men,  clad  in  handsome,  short,  sleeveless  coats  of 
violet  camelot,  with  large  white  crosses  upon  their  breasts. 

So  the  crowd  of  citizens,  male  and  female,  having  closed 
their  houses  and  shops,  thronged  from  every  direction,  at 
early  morn,  towards  some  one  of  the  three  spots  designated. 

Each  had  made  his  choice ;  one,  the  bonfire ;  another,  the 
maypole  ;  another,  the  mystery  play.  It  must  be  stated,  in 
honor  of  the  good  sense  of  the  loungers  of  Paris,  that  the 
greater  part  of  this  crowd  directed  their  steps  towards  the 
bonfire,  which  was  quite  in  season,  or  towards  the  mystery 
play,  which  was  to  be  presented  in  the  grand  hall  of  the 
Palais  de  Justice  (the  courts  of  law),  which  was  well  roofed 
and  walled ;  and  that  the  curious  left  the  poor,  scantily  flow- 
ered maypole  to  shiver  all  alone  beneath  the  sky  of  January, 
in  the  cemetery  of  the  Chapel  of  Braque. 

The  populace  thronged  the  avenues  of  the  law  courts  in 
particular,  because  they  knew  that  the  Flemish  ambassadors, 
who  had  arrived  two  days  previously,  intended  to  be  present 
at  the  representation  of  the  mystery,  and  at  the  election  of 
the  Pope  of  the  Fools,  which  was  also  to  take  place  in  the 
grand  hall. 

It  was  no  easy  matter  on  that  day,  to  force  one's  way  into 
that  grand  hall,  although  it  was  then  reputed  to  be  the  largest 
covered  enclosure  in  the  world  (it  is  true  that  Sauval  had  not 
yet  measured  the  grand  hall  of  the  Chateau  of  Montargis). 
The  palace  place,  encumbered  with  people,  offered  to  the 
curious  gazers  at  the  windows  the  aspect  of  a  sea ;  into  which 
five  or  six  streets,  like  so  many  mouths  of  rivers,  discharged 


THE  GRAND  HALL.  3 

every  moment  fresh  floods  of  heads.  The  waves  of  this 
crowd,  augmented  incessantly,  dashed  against  the  angles  of 
the  houses  which  projected  here  and  there,  like  so  many 
promontories,  into  the  irregular  basin  of  the  place.  In  the 
centre  of  the  lofty  Gothic  *  facade  of  the  palace,  the  grand 
staircase,  incessantly  ascended  and  descended  by  a  double  cur- 
rent, which,  after  parting  on  the  intermediate  landing-place, 
flowed  in  broad  waves  along  its  lateral  slopes, — the  grand 
staircase,  I  say,  trickled  incessantly  into  the  place,  like  a 
cascade  into  a  lake.  The  cries,  the  laughter,  the  trampling 
of  those  thousands  of  feet,  produced  a  great  noise  and  a  great 
clamor.  From  time  to  time,  this  noise  and  clamor  redoubled ; 
the  current  which  drove  the  crowd  towards  the  grand  stair- 
case flowed  backwards,  became  troubled,  formed  whirlpools. 
This  was  produced  by  the  buffet  of  an  archer,  or  the  horse  of 
one  of  the  provost's  sergeants,  which  kicked  to  restore  order ; 
an  admirable  tradition  which  the  provostship  has  bequeathed 
to  the  constablery,  the  constablery  to  the  marechaussee,  the 
marechaussee  to  our  gendarmeri  of  Paris. 

Thousands  of  good,  calm,  bourgeois  faces  thronged  the  win- 
dows, the  doors,  the  dormer  windows,  the  roofs,  gazing  at  the 
palace,  gazing  at  the  populace,  and  asking  nothing  more ;  for 
many  Parisians  content  themselves  with  the  spectacle  of  the 
spectators,  and  a  wall  behind  Avhich  something  is  going  on 
becomes  at  once,  for  us,  a  very  curious  thing  indeed. 

If  it  could  be  granted  to  us,  the  men  of  1830,  to  mingle  in 
thought  with  those  Parisians  of  the  fifteenth  century,  and  to 
enter  with  them,  jostled,  elboAved,  pulled  about,  into  that 
immense  hall  of  the  palace,  which  was  so  cramped  on  that 
sixth  of  January,  1482,  the  spectacle  would  not  be  devoid  of 
either  interest  or  charm,  and  we  should  have  about  us  only 
things  that  were  so  old  that  they  would  seem  new. 

*  The  word  Gothic,  in  the  sense  in  which  it  is  generally  employed,  is 
wholly  unsuitable,  but  wholly  consecrated.  Hence  we  accept  it  and 
we  adopt  it,  like  all  the  rest  of  the  world,  to  characterize  the  architecture 
of  the  second  half  of  the  Middle  Ages,  where  the  ogive  is  the  principle 
which  succeeds  the  architecture  of  the  first  period,  of  which  the  semi- 
circle is  the  father. 


4  NOTRE-DAME. 

With  the  reader's  consent,  we  will  endeavor  to  retrace  in 
thought,  the  impression  which  he  would  have  experienced  in 
company  with  us  on  crossing  the  threshold  of  that  grand  hall, 
in  the  midst  of  that  tumultuous  crowd  in  surcoats,  short, 
sleeveless  jackets,  and  doublets. 

And,  first  of  all,  there  is  a  buzzing  in  the  ears,  a  dazzlement 
in  the  eyes.  Above  our  heads  is  a  double  ogive  vault,  pan- 
elled with  wood  carving,  painted  azure,  and  sown  with  golden 
fleurs-de-lis  ;  beneath  our  feet  a  pavement  of  black  and  white 
marble,  alternating.  A  few  paces  distant,  an  enormous  pillar, 
then  another,  then  another;  seven  pillars  in  all,  down  the 
length  of  the  hall,  sustaining  the  spring  of  the  arches  of  the 
double  vault,  in  the  centre  of  its  width.  Around  four  of 
the  pillars,  stalls  of  merchants,  all  sparkling  with  glass  and 
tinsel;  around  the  last  three,  benches  of  oak,  worn  and  pol- 
ished by  the  trunk  hose  of  the  litigants,  and  the  robes  of  the 
attorneys.  Around  the  hall,  along  the  lofty  wall,  between  the 
doors,  between  the  windows,  between  the  pillars,  the  intermi- 
nable row  of  all  the  kings  of  France,  from  Pharamond  down : 
the  lazy  kings,  with  pendent  arms  and  downcast  eyes;  the 
valiant  and  combative  kings,  with  heads  and  arms  raised 
boldly  heavenward.  Then  in  the  long,  pointed  windows, 
glass  of  a  thousand  hues ;  at  the  wide  entrances  to  the  hall, 
rich  doors,  finely  sculptured;  and  all,  the  vaults,  pillars, 
walls,  jambs,  panelling,  doors,  statues,  covered  from  top  to 
bottom  with  a  splendid  blue  and  gold  illumination,  which,  a 
trifle  tarnished  at  the  epoch  when  we  behold  it,  had  almost 
entirely  disappeared  beneath  dust  and  spiders  in  the  year  of 
grace,  1549,  when  du  Breul  still  admired  it  from  tradition. 

Let  the  reader  picture  to  himself  now,  this  immense,  oblong 
hall,  illuminated  by  the  pallid  light  of  a  January  day,  invaded 
by  a  motley  and  noisy  throng  which  drifts  along  the  walls, 
and  eddies  round  the  seven  pillars,  and  he  will  have  a  con- 
fused idea  of  the  whole  effect  of  the  picture,  whose  curious 
details  we  shall  make  an  effort  to  indicate  with  more  pre- 
cision. 

It  is  certain,  that  if  Ravaillac  had  not  assassinated  Henri 
IV.,  there  would  have  been  no  documents  in  the  trial  of 


THE  GRAND  HALL.  5 

Ravaillac  deposited  in  the  clerk's  office  of  the  Palais  de  Jus- 
tice, no  accomplices  interested  in  causing  the  said  documents 
to  disappear ;  hence,  no  incendiaries  obliged,  for  lack  of  better 
means,  to  burn  the  clerk's  office  in  order  to  burn  the  docu- 
ments, and  to  burn  the  Palais  de  Justice  in  order  to  burn  the 
clerk's  office ;  consequently,  in  short,  no  conflagration  in  1618. 
The  old  Palais  would  be  standing  still,  with  its  ancient  grand 
hall ;  I  should  be  able  to  say  to  the  reader,  "  Go  and  look  at 
it,"  and  we  should  thus  both  escape  the  necessity,  —  I  of 
making,  and  he  of  reading,  a  description  of  it,  such  as  it  is. 
Which  demonstrates  a  new  truth:  that  great  events  have 
incalculable  results. 

It  is  true  that  it  may  be  quite  possible,  in  the  first  place, 
that  Ravaillac  had  no  accomplices ;  and  in  the  second,  that  if 
he  had  any,  they  were  in  no  way  connected  with  the  fire  of 
1618.  Two  other  very  plausible  explanations  exist :  First, 
the  great  flaming  star,  a  foot  broad,  and  a  cubit  high,  which 
fell  from  heaven,  as  every  one  knows,  upon  the  law  courts, 
after  midnight  on  the  seventh  of  March ;  second,  Theophile's 
quatrain,  — 

"Sure,  'twas  but  a  sorry  game 
When  at  Paris,  Dame  Justice, 
Through  having  eaten  too  much  spice, 
Set  the  palace  all  aflame." 

Whatever  may  be  thought  of  this  triple  explanation,  politi- 
cal, physical,  and  poetical,  of  the  burning  of  the  law  courts  in 
1618,  the  unfortunate  fact  of  the  fire  is  certain.  Very  little 
to-day  remains,  thanks  to  this  catastrophe,  —  thanks,  above 
all,  to  the  successive  restorations  which  have  completed  what 
it  spared,  —  very  little  remains  of  that  first  dwelling  of  the 
kings  of  France,  —  of  that  elder  palace  of  the  Louvre,  already 
so  old  in  the  time  of  Philip  the  Handsome,  that  they  sought 
there  for  the  traces  of  the  magnificent  buildings  erected  by 
King  Robert  and  described  by  Helgaldus.  Nearly  everything 
has  disappeared.  What  has  become  of  the  chamber  of  the 
chancellery,  where  Saint  Louis  consummated  his  marriage  ? 
the  garden  where  he  administered  justice,  "  clad  in  a  coat  of 


6  NOTRE-DAME. 

camelot,  a  surcoat  of  linsey-woolsey,  without  sleeves,  and  a 
sur-mantle  of  black  sandal,  as  he  lay  upon  the  carpet  with 
Joinville  ?  "  Where  is  the  chamber  of  the  Euiperor  Sigis* 
mond  ?  and  that  of  Charles  IV.  ?  that  of  Jean  the  Landless  ? 
Where  is  the  staircase,  from  which  Charles  VI.  promulgated 
his  edict  of  pardon  ?  the  slab  where  Marcel  cut  the  throats  of 
Robert  de  Clermont  and  the  Marshal  of  Champagne,  in  the 
presence  of  the  dauphin  ?  the  wicket  where  the  bulls  of 
Pope  Benedict  were  torn,  and  whence  those  who  had  brought 
them  departed  decked  out,  in  derision,  in  copes  and  mitres, 
and  making  an  apology  through  all  Paris  ?  and  the  grand 
hall,  with  its  gilding,  its  azure,  its  statues,  its  pointed  arches, 
its  pillars,  its  immense  vault,  all  fretted  with  carvings  ?  and 
the  gilded  chamber  ?  and  the  stone  lion,  which  stood  at  the 
door,  with  lowered  head  and  tail  between  his  legs,  like  the 
lions  on  the  throne  of  Solomon,  in  the  humiliated  attitude 
which  befits  force  in  the  presence  of  justice  ?  and  the  beauti- 
ful doors  ?  and  the  stained  glass  ?  and  the  chased  ironwork, 
which  drove  Biscornette  to  despair  ?  and  the  delicate  wood- 
work of  Hancy  ?  "What  has  time,  what  have  men  done  with 
these  marvels  ?  What  have  they  given  us  in  return  for  all 
this  Gallic  history,  for  all  this  Gothic  art  ?  The  heavy  flat- 
tened arches  of  M.  de  Brosse,  that  awkward  architect  of  the 
Saint-Gervais  portal.  So  much  for  art;  and,  as  for  history, 
we  have  the  gossiping  reminiscences  of  the  great  pillar,  still 
ringing  with  the  tattle  of  the  Patru. 

It  is  not  much.  Let  us  return  to  the  veritable  grand  hall 
of  the  veritable  old  palace.  The  two  extremities  of  this 
gigantic  parallelogram  were  occupied,  the  one  by  the  famous 
marble  table,  so  long,  so  broad,  and  so  thick  that,  as  the 
ancient  land  rolls  —  in  a  style  that  would  have  given  Gargan- 
tua  an  appetite  —  say,  "such  a  slice  of  marble  as  was  never 
beheld  in  the  world  " ;  the  other  by  the  chapel  where  Louis  XI. 
had  himself  sculptured  on  his  knees  before  the  Virgin,  and 
whither  he  caused  to  be  brought,  without  heeding  the  two 
gaps  thus  made  in  the  row  of  royal  statues,  the  statues  of 
Charlemagne  and  of  Saint  Louis,  two  saints  whom  he  sup- 
posed to  be  great  in  favor  in  heaven,  as  kings  of  France. 


THE  GRAND   HALL.  7 

This  chapel,  quite  new,  having  been  built  only  six  years,  was 
entirely  in  that  charming  taste  of  delicate  architecture,  of 
marvellous  sculpture,  of  tine  and  deep  chasing,  which  marks 
with  us  the  end  of  the  Gothic  era,  and  which  is  perpetuated 
to  about  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  century  in  the  fairylike 
fancies  of  the  Renaissance.  The  little  open-work  rose  win- 
dow, pierced  above  the  portal,  was,  in  particular,  a  master- 
piece of  lightness  and  grace ;  one  would  have  pronounced  it  a 
star  of  lace. 

In  the  middle  of  the  hall,  opposite  the  great  door,  a  plat- 
form of  gold  brocade,  placed  against  the  wall,  a  special 
entrance  to  which  had  been  effected  through  a  window  in 
the  corridor  of  the  gold  chamber,  had  been  erected  for  the 
Flemish  emissaries  and  the  other  great  personages  invited  to 
the  presentation  of  the  mystery  play. 

It  was  upon  the  marble  table  that  the  mystery  was  to  be 
enacted,  as  usual.  It  had  been  arranged  for  the  purpose, 
early  in  the  morning ;  its  rich  slabs  of  marble,  all  scratched 
by  the  heels  of  law  clerks,  supported  a  cage  of  carpenter's 
work  of  considerable  height,  the  upper  surface  of  which, 
within  view  of  the  whole  hall,  was  to  serve  as  the  theatre, 
and  whose  interior,  masked  by  tapestries,  was  to  take  the 
place  of  dressing-rooms  for  the  personages  of  the  piece.  A 
ladder,  naively  placed  on  the  outside,  was  to  serve  as  means 
of  communication  between  the  dressing-room  and  the  stage, 
and  lend  its  rude  rungs  to  entrances  as  well  as  to  exits. 
There  was  no  personage,  however  unexpected,  no  sudden 
change,  no  theatrical  effect,  which  was  not  obliged  to  mount 
that  ladder.  Innocent  and  venerable  infancy  of  art  and  con- 
trivances ! 

Four  of  the  bailiff  of  the  palace's  sergeants,  perfunctory 
guardians  of  all  the  pleasures  of  the  people,  on  days  of  fes- 
tival as  well  as  on  days  of  execution,  stood  at  the  four  corners 
of  the  marble  table. 

The  piece  was  only  to  begin  with  the  twelfth  stroke  of  the 
great  palace  clock  sounding  midday.  It  was  very  late,  no 
doubt,  for  a  theatrical  representation,  but  they  had  been 
obliged  to  fix  the  hour  to  suit  the  convenience  of  the  ambas- 
sadors. 


8  NOTRE-DAME. 

Now,  this  whole  multitude  had  been  waiting  since  morning. 
A  goodly  number  of  curious,  good  people  had  been  shivering 
since  daybreak  before  the  grand  staircase  of  the  palace ; 
some  even  affirmed  that  they  had  passed  the  night  across 
the  threshold  of  the  great  door,  in  order  to  make  sure  that 
they  should  be  the  first  to  pass  in.  The  crowd  grew  more 
dense  every  moment,  and,  like  water,  which  rises  above  its 
normal  level,  began  to  mount  along  the  walls,  to  swell  around 
the  pillars,  to  spread  out  on  the  entablatures,  on  the  cornices, 
on  the  window-sills,  on  all  the  salient  points  of  the  architec- 
ture, on  all  the  reliefs  of  the  sculpture.  Hence,  discomfort, 
impatience,  weariness,  the  liberty  of  a  day  of  cynicism  and 
folly,  the  quarrels  which  break  forth  for  all  sorts  of  causes  — 
a  pointed  elbow,  an  iron-shod  shoe,  the  fatigue  of  long  wait- 
ing—  had  already,  long  before  the  hour  appointed  for  the 
arrival  of  the  ambassadors,  imparted  a  harsh  and  bitter 
accent  to  the  clamor  of  these  people  who  were  shut  in,  fitted 
into  each  other,  pressed,  trampled  upon,  stifled.  Nothing 
was  to  be  heard  but  imprecations  on  the  Flemish,  the  provost 
of  the  merchants,  the  Cardinal  de  Bourbon,  the  bailiff  of  the 
courts,  Madame  Marguerite  of  Austria,  the  sergeants  with 
their  rods,  the  cold,  the  heat,  the  bad  weather,  the  Bishop 
of  Paris,  the  Pope  of  the  Fools,  the  pillars,  the  statues,  that 
closed  door,  that  open  window ;  all  to  the  vast  amusement  of 
a  band  of  scholars  and  lackeys  scattered  through  the  mass, 
who  mingled  with  all  this  discontent  their  teasing  remarks, 
and  their  malicious  suggestions,  and  pricked  the  general  bad 
temper  with  a  pin,  so  to  speak. 

Among  the  rest  there  was  a  group  of  those  merry  imps, 
who,  after  smashing  the  glass  in  a  window,  had  seated  them- 
selves hardily  on  the  entablature,  and  from  that  point  de- 
spatched their  gaze  and  their  railleries  both  within  and 
without,  upon  the  throng  in  the  hall,  and  the  throng  upon 
the  Place.  It  was  easy  to  see,  from  their  parodied  gestures, 
their  ringing  laughter,  the  bantering  appeals  which  they 
exchanged  with  their  comrades,  from  one  end  of  the  hall  to 
the  other,  that  these  young  clerks  did  not  share  the  weariness 
and  fatigue  of  the  rest  of  the  spectators,  and  that  they  under- 


THE  GRAND   HALL.  9 

stood  very  well  the  art  of  extracting,  for  their  own  private 
diversion,  from  that  which  they  had  under  their  eyes,  a  spec- 
tacle which  made  them  await  the  other  with  patience. 

"Upon  my  soul,  so  it's  you,  'Joannes  Frollo  de  Molen- 
dino ! ' "  cried  one  of  them,  to  a  sort  of  little,  light-haired 
imp,  with  a  well-favored  and  malign  countenance,  clinging  to 
the  acanthus  leaves  of  a  capital ;  "  you  are  well  named  John 
of  the  Mill,  for  your  two  arms  and  your  two  legs  have  the  air 
of  four  wings  fluttering  on  the  breeze.  How  long  have  you 
been  here  ?  " 

"By  the  mercy  of  the  devil,"  retorted  Joannes  Frollo, 
"  these  four  hours  and  more ;  and  I  hope  that  they  will  be 
reckoned  to  my  credit  in  purgatory.  I  heard  the  eight  sing- 
ers of  the  King  of  Sicily  intone  the  first  verse  of  seven  o'clock 
mass  in  the  Sainte-Chapelle." 

"  Fine  singers ! "  replied  the  other,  "  with  voices  even  more 
pointed  than  their  caps !  Before  founding  a  mass  for  Mon- 
sieur Saint  John,  the  king  should  have  inquired  whether 
Monsieur  Saint  John  likes  Latin  droned  out  in  a  Provencal 
accent." 

"  He  did  it  for  the  sake  of  employing  those  accursed  sing- 
ers of  the  King  of  Sicily  ! "  cried  an  old  woman  sharply  from 
among  the  crowd  beneath  the  window.  "I  just  put  it  to 
you  !  A  thousand  livres  parisi  for  a  mass  !  and  out  of  the  tax 
on  sea  fish  in  the  markets  of  Paris,  to  boot ! " 

"Peace,  old  crone,"  said  a  tall,  grave  person,  stopping  up 
his  nose  on  the  side  towards  the  fishwife ;  "  a  mass  had  to  be 
founded.  Would  you  wish  the  king  to  fall  ill  again  ?  " 

"Bravely  spoken,  Sire  Gilles  Lecornu,  master  furrier  of 
the  king's  robes ! "  cried  the  little  student,  clinging  to  the 
capital. 

A  shout,  of  laughter  from  all  the  students  greeted  the 
unlucky  name  of  the  poor  furrier  of  the  king's  robes. 

"  Lecornu  !  Gilles  Lecornu  ! "  said  some. 

"  Cornutus  et  hirsutus,  horned  and  hairy,"  another  went  on. 

"He  !  of  course,"  continued  the  small  imp  on  the  capital, 
"  What  are  they  laughing  at  ?  An  honorable  man  is  Gilles 
Lecornu,  brother  of  Master  Jehan  Lecornu,  provost  of  the 


10  NOTRE-DAME. 

king's  house,  son  of  Master  Mahiet  Lecornu,  first  porter  of 
the  Bois  de  Vincennes,  —  all  bourgeois  of  Paris,  all  married, 
from  father  to  son." 

The  gayety  redoubled.  The  big  furrier,  without  uttering  a 
word  in  reply,  tried  to  escape  all  the  eyes  riveted  upon  him 
from  all  sides ;  but  he  perspired  and  panted  in  vain ;  like  a 
wedge  entering  the  wood,  his  efforts  served  only  to  bury  still 
more  deeply  in  the  shoulders  of  his  neighbors,  his  large,  apo- 
plectic face,  purple  with  spite  and  rage. 

At  length  one  of  these,  as  fat,  short,  and  venerable  as  him- 
self, came  to  his  rescue. 

"Abomination!  scholars  addressing  a  bourgeois  in  that 
fashion  in  my  day  would  have  been  flogged  with  a  fagot, 
which  would  have  afterwards  been  used  to  burn  them." 

The  whole  band  burst  into  laughter. 

"  Hola  he !  who  is  scolding  so  ?  Who  is  that  screech  owl  of 
evil  fortune  ?  " 

"Hold,  I  know  him,"  said  one  of  them;  "'tis  Master 
Andry  Musnier." 

"Because  he  is  one  of  the  four  sworn  booksellers  of  the 
university  ! "  said  the  other. 

"Everything  goes  by  fours  in  that  shop,"  cried  a  third; 
"  the  four  nations,  the  four  faculties,  the  four  feasts,  the  four 
procurators,  the  four  electors,  the  four  booksellers." 

"  Well,"  began  Jean  Frollo  once  more,  "  we  must  play  the 
devil  with  them."  * 

"  Musnier,  we'll  burn  your  books." 

"  Musnier,  we'll  beat  your  lackeys." 

"Musnier,  we'll  kiss  your  wife." 

"  That  fine,  big  Mademoiselle  Oudarde." 

"  Who  is  as  fresh  and  as  gay  as  though  she  were  a  widow." 

"  Devil  take  you ! "  growled  Master  Andry  Musnier. 

"  Master  Andry,"  pursued  Jean  Jehan,  still  clinging  to  his 
capital,  "  hold  your  tongue,  or  I'll  drop  on  your  head  ! " 

Master  Andry  raised  his  eyes,  seemed  to  measure  in  an 
instant  the  height  of  the  pillar,  the  weight  of  the  scamp, 

*  Faire  le  (liable  &  quatre. 


THE   GRAND   HALL.  H 

mentally  multiplied  that  weight  by  the  square  of  the  ve- 
locity, and  remained  silent. 

Jehan,  master  of  the  field  of  battle,  pursued  triumphantly : 

"  That's  what  I'll  do,  even  if  I  am  the  brother  of  an  arch- 
deacon ! " 

"  Fine  gentry  are  our  people  of  the  university,  not  to  have 
caused  our  privileges  to  be  respected  on  such  a  day  as  this  ! 
However,  there  is  a  maypole  and  a  bonfire  in  the  town ;  a 
mystery,  Pope  of  the  Fools,  and  Flemish  ambassadors  in  the 
city  ;  and,  at  the  university,  nothing !  " 

"  Nevertheless,  the  Place  Maubert  is  sufficiently  large ! " 
interposed  one  of  the  clerks  established  on  the  window-sill. 

"  Down  with  the  rector,  the  electors,  and  the  procurators  ! " 
cried  Joannes. 

"We  must  have  a  bonfire  this  evening  in  the  Champ-Gail- 
lard,"  went  on  the  other,  "made  of  Master  Andry's  books." 

"  And  the  desks  of  the  scribes  ! "  added  his  neighbor. 

"  And  the  beadles'  wands  ! " 

"  And  the  spittoons  of  the  deans  ! " 

"  And  the  cupboards  of  the  procurators  !  " 

"  And  the  hutches  of  the  electors  !  " 

"  And  the  stools  of  the  rector  ! " 

"  Down  with  them  !  "  put  in  little  Jehan,  as  counterpoint ; 
"  down  with  Master  Andry,  the  beadles  and  the  scribes ;  the 
theologians,  the  doctors  and  the  decretists;  the  procurators, 
the  electors  and  the  rector  !  " 

"  The  end  of  the  world  has  come  ! "  muttered  Master  Andry, 
stopping  up  his  ears. 

"  By  the  way,  there's  the  rector !  see,  he  is  passing  through 
the  Place,"  cried  one  of  those  in  the  window. 

Each  rivalled  his  neighbor  in  his  haste  to  turn  towards  the 
Place. 

"Is  it  really  our  venerable  rector,  Master  Thibaut?"  de- 
manded Jehan  Frollo  du  Moulin,  who,  as  he  was  clinging  to 
one  of  the  inner  pillars,  could  not  see  what  was  going  on  out- 
side. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  replied  all  the  others,  "  it  is  really  he,  Master 
Thibaut,  the  rector." 


|2  NOTRE-DAME. 

It  was,  in  fact,  the  rector  and  all  the  dignitaries  of  the 
university,  who  were  marching  in  procession  in  front  of  the 
embassy,  and  at  that  moment  traversing  the  Place.  The  stu- 
dents crowded  into  the  window,  saluted  them  as  they  passed 
with  sarcasms  and  ironical  applause.  The  rector,  who  was 
walking  at  the  head  of  his  company,  had  to  support  the  first 
broadside ;  it  was  severe. 

"  Good  day,  monsieur  le  recteur !  Hoik  he !  good  day 
there ! " 

"  How  does  he  manage  to  be  here,  the  old  gambler  ?  Has 
he  abandoned  his  dice  ?  " 

"  How  he  trots  along  on  his  mule  !  her  ears  are  not  so  long 
as  his ! " 

"Hoik  he !  good  day,  monsieur  le  recteur  Thibaut !  Tybalde 
aleator  !  Old  fool !  old  gambler !  " 

"  God  preserve  yon !  Did  you  throw  double  six  often  last 
night?" 

"  Oh !  what  a  decrepit  face,  livid  and  haggard  and  drawn 
with  the  love  of  gambling  and  of  dice  ! " 

"  Where  are  you  bound  for  in  that  fashion,  Thibaut,  Tybalde 
ad  dados,  with  your  back  turned  to  the  university,  and  trot- 
ting towards  the  town  ?  " 

"  He  is  on  his  way,  no  doubt,  to  seek  a  lodging  in  the  Rue 
Thibautode  ?  "  *  cried  Jehan  du  M.  Moulin. 

The  entire  band  repeated  this  quip  in  a  voice  of  thunder, 
clapping  their  hands  furiously. 

"  You  are  going  to  seek  a  lodging  in  the  Rue  Thibautode, 
are  you  not,  monsieur  le  recteur,  gamester  on  the  side  of  the 
devil  ?  " 

Then  came  the  turns  of  the  other  dignitaries. 

"  Down  with  the  beadles  !  down  with  the  mace-bearers ! " 

"  Tell  me,  Robin  Pouissepain,  who  is  that  yonder  ?  " 

"  He  is  Gilbert  de  Suilly,  Gilbertus  de  Soliaco,  the  chancel- 
lor of  the  College  of  Autun." 

"  Hold  on,  here's  my  shoe ;  you  are  better  placed  than  I, 
fling  it  in  his  face." 

«  Thibaut  au  des,  —Thibaut  of  the  dice. 


THE  GRAND  HALL.  13 

"  Saturnalitias  mittimus  ecce  nuces." 

"Down  with  the  six  theologians,  with  their  white  sur- 
plices ! " 

"  Are  those  the  theologians  ?  I  thought  they  were  the 
white  geese  given  by  Sainte-Genevieve  to  the  city,  for  the 
fief  of  Eoogny." 

"  Down  with  the  doctors  ! " 

"  Down  with  the  cardinal  disputations,  and  quibblers  ! " 

"  My  cap  to  you,  Chancellor  of  Sainte-Genevieve !  You 
have  done  me  a  wrong.  "Tis  true ;  he  gave  my  place  in  the 
nation  of  Normandy  to  little  Ascanio  Falzapada,  who  comes 
from  the  province  of  Bourges,  since  he  is  an  Italian." 

"That  is  an  injustice,"  said  all  the  scholars.  "Down  with 
the  Chancellor  of  Sainte-Genevieve  ! " 

"  Ho  he !  Master  Joachim  de  Ladehors !  Ho  he !  Louis 
Dahuille  !  Ho  he  Lambert  Hoctement ! " 

"  May  the  devil  stifle  the  procurator  of  the  German  nation ! " 

"  And  the  chaplains  of  the  Sainte-Chapelle,  with  their  gray 
amices;  cum  tunices  grisis  !  " 

"  Sen  de  pellibus  grisis  fourratis  !  " 

"  Hola  he  !  Masters  of  Arts  !  All  the  beautiful  black  copes  ! 
all  the  fine  red  copes  ! " 

"  They  make  a  fine  tail  for  the  rector." 

"  One  would  say  that  he  was  a  Doge  of  Venice  on  his  way 
to  his  bridal  with  the  sea." 

"  Say,  Jehan !  here  are  the  canons  of  Sainte-Genevieve  ! " 

"  To  the  deuce  with  the  whole  set  of  canons  ! " 

"Abbe  Claude  Choart !  Doctor  Claude  Choart !  Are  you  in 
search  of  Marie  la  Giffarde  ?  " 

"  She  is  in  the  Eue  de  Glatigny." 

"  She  is  making  the  bed  of  the  king  of  the  debauchees." 

"  She  is  paying  her  four  deniers  *  quatuor  denarios." 

"  Arit  unum  bombum." 

"  Would  you  like  to  have  her  pay  you  in  the  face  ?  " 

"Comrades!  Master  Simon  Sanguin,  the  Elector  of  Pic- 
ardy,  with  his  wife  on  the  crupper ! " 

*  An  old  French  coin,  equal  to  the  two  hundred  and  fortieth  part  of  a 
silver  pound. 


14  NOTRE-DAME. 

"Post  equitem  sedet  atra  euro,  —  behind  the  horseman  sits 
black  care." 

"  Courage,  Master  Simon ! " 

"  Good  day,  Mister  Elector ! " 

"  Good  night,  Madame  Electress  ! " 

"  How  happy  they  are  to  see  all  that ! "  sighed  Joannes  de 
Molendino,  still  perched  in  the  foliage  of  his  capital. 

Meanwhile,  the  sworn  bookseller  of  the  university,  Master 
Andry  Musnier,  was  inclining  his  ear  to  the  furrier  of  the 
king's  robes,  Master  Gilles  Lecornu. 

"  I  tell  you,  sir,  that  the  end  of  the  world  has  come.  No 
one  has  ever  beheld  such  outbreaks  among  the  students  !  It  is 
the  accursed  inventions  of  this  century  that  are  ruining 
everything,  —  artilleries,  bombards,  and,  above  all,  printing, 
that  other  German  pest.  No  more  manuscripts,  no  more 
books !  printing  will  kill  bookselling.  It  is  the  end  of  the 
world  that  is  drawing  nigh." 

"I  see  that  plainly,  from  the  progress  of  velvet  stuffs," 
said  the  fur-merchant. 

At  this  moment,  midday  sounded. 

"  Ha ! "  exclaimed  the  entire  crowd,  in  one  voice. 

The  scholars  held  their  peace.  Then  a  great  hurly-burly 
ensued ;  a  vast  movement  of  feet,  hands,  and  heads ;  a  general 
outbreak  of  coughs  and  handkerchiefs ;  each  one  arranged 
himself,  assumed  his  post,  raised  himself  up,  and  grouped 
himself.  Then  came  a  great  silence ;  all  necks  remained  out- 
stretched, all  mouths  remained  open,  all  glances  were  directed 
towards  the  marble  table.  Nothing  made  its  appearance 
there.  The  bailiff's  four  sergeants  were  still  there,  stiff, 
motionless,  as  painted  statues.  All  eyes  turned  to  the  estrade 
reserved  for  the  Flemish  envoys.  The  door  remained  closed, 
the  platform  empty.  This  crowd  had  been  waiting  since  day- 
break for  three  things :  noonday,  the  embassy  from  Flanders, 
the  mystery  play.  Noonday  alone  had  arrived  on  time. 

On  this  occasion,  it  was  too  much. 

They  waited  one,  two,  three,  five  minutes,  a  quarter  of  an 
hour ;  nothing  came.  The  dais  remained  empty,  the  theatre 
dumb.  In  the  meantime,  wrath  had  succeeded  to  impatience. 


THE  GRAND  HALL.  15 

Irritated  words  circulated  in  a  low  tone,  still,  it  is  true. 
"  The  mystery !  the  mystery ! "  they  murmured,  in  hollow 
voices.  Heads  began  to  ferment.  A  tempest,  which  was 
only  rumbling  in  the  distance  as  yet,  was  floating  on  the 
surface  of  this  crowd.  It  was  Jehan  du  Moulin  who  struck 
the  first  spark  from  it. 

"  The  mystery,  and  to  the  devil  with  the  Flemings ! "  he 
exclaimed  at  the  full  force  of  his  lungs,  twining  like  a  ser- 
pent around  his  pillar. 

The  crowd  clapped  their  hands. 

"  The  mystery  ! "  it  repeated,  "  and  may  all  the  devils  take 
Flanders ! " 

"We  must  have  the  mystery  instantly,"  resumed  the  stu- 
dent ;  "  or  else,  my  advice  is  that  Ave  should  hang  the  bailiff 
of  the  courts,  by  way  of  a  morality  and  a  comedy." 

"  Well  said,"  cried  the  people,  "  and  let  us  begin  the  hang- 
ing with  his  sergeants." 

A  grand  acclamation  followed.  The  four  poor  fellows 
began  to  turn  pale,  and  to  exchange  glances.  The  crowd 
hurled  itself  towards  them,  and  they  already  beheld  the 
frail  wooden  railing,  which  separated  them  from  it,  giving 
way  and  bending  before  the  pressure  of  the  throng. 

It  was  a  critical  moment. 

"  To  the  sack,  to  the  sack ! "  rose  the  cry  on  all  sides. 

At  that  moment,  the  tapestry  of  the  dressing-room,  which 
we  have  described  above,  was  raised,  and  afforded  passage  to  a 
personage,  the  mere  sight  of  whom  suddenly  stopped  the  crowd, 
and  changed  its  wrath  into  curiosity  as  by  enchantment. 

"  Silence  !  silence ! " 

The  personage,  but  little  reassured,  and  trembling  in  every 
limb,  advanced  to  the  edge  of  the  marble  table  with  a  vast 
amount  of  bows,  which,  in  proportion  as  he  drew  nearer,  more 
and  more  resembled  genuflections. 

In  the  meanwhile,  tranquillity  had  gradually  been  restored. 
All  that  remained  was  that  slight  murmur  which  always  rises 
above  the  silence  of  a  crowd. 

"Messieurs  the  bourgeois,"  said  he,  "and  mesdemoiselles 
the  bourgeoises,  we  shall  have  the  honor  of  declaiming  and 


16  NOTBE-DAME. 

representing,  before  his  eminence,  monsieur  the  cardinal,  a 
very  beautiful  morality  which  has  for  its  title,  'The  Good 
Judgment  of  Madame  the  Virgin  Mary.'  I  am  to  play  Jupi- 
ter. His  eminence  is,  at  this  moment,  escorting  the  very 
honorable  embassy  of  the  Duke  of  Austria;  which  is  de- 
tained, at  present,  listening  to  the  harangue  of  monsieur  the 
rector  of  the  university,  at  the  gate  Baudets.  As  soon  as  his 
illustrious  eminence,  the  cardinal,  arrives,  we  will  begin." 

It  is  certain,  that  nothing  less  than  the  intervention  of 
Jupiter  was  required  to  save  the  four  unfortunate  sergeants 
of  the  bailiff  of  the  courts.  If  we  had  the  happiness  of  having 
invented  this  very  veracious  tale,  and  of  being,  in  consequence, 
responsible  for  it  before  our  Lady  Criticism,  it  is  not  against 
us  that  the  classic  precept,  Nee  deus  intersit,  could  be  invoked. 
Moreover,  the  costume  of  Seigneur  Jupiter,  was  very  handsome, 
and  contributed  not  a  little  towards  calming  the  crowd,  by 
attracting  all  its  attention.  Jupiter  was  clad  in  a  coat  of 
mail,  covered  with  black  velvet,  with  gilt  nails ;  and  had  it 
not  been  for  the  rouge,  and  the  huge  red  beard,  each  of  which 
covered  one-half  of  his  face,  —  had  it  not  been  for  the  roll  of 
gilded  cardboard,  spangled,  and  all  bristling  with  strips  of 
tinsel,  which  he  held  in  his  hand,  and  in  which  the  eyes 
of  the  initiated  easily  recognized  thunderbolts,  —  had  not  his 
feet  been  flesh-colored,  and  banded  with  ribbons  in  Greek 
fashion,  he  might  have  borne  comparison,  so  far  as  the  se- 
verity of  his  mien  was  concerned,  with  a  Breton  archer  from 
the  guard  of  Monsieur  de  Berry. 


CHAPTER  II. 

PIERKE    GKINGOIKE. 

NEVERTHELESS,  as  he  harangued  them,  the  satisfaction  and 
admiration  unanimously  excited  by  his  costume  were  dissi- 
pated by  his  words ;  and  when  he  reached  that  untoward  con- 
clusion :  "  As  soon  as  his  illustrious  eminence,  the  cardinal, 
arrives,  we  will  begin,  "his  voice  was  drowned  in  a  thunder 
of  hooting. 

"  Begin  instantly !  The  mystery !  the  mystery  immedi- 
ately ! "  shrieked  the  people.  And  above  all  the  voices,  that 
of  Johannes  de  Molendino  was  audible,  piercing  the  uproar 
like  the  fife's  derisive  serenade :  "  Commence  instantly ! " 
yelped  the  scholar. 

"  Down  with  Jupiter  and  the  Cardinal  de  Bourbon ! "  vocif- 
erated Robin  Poussepain  and  the  other  clerks  perched  in  the 
window. 

"  The  morality  this  very  instant ! "  repeated  the  crowd ; 
"  this  very  instant !  the  sack  and  the  rope  for  the  comedians, 
and  the  cardinal ! " 

Poor  Jupiter,  haggard,  frightened,  pale  beneath  his  rouge, 
dropped  his  thunderbolt,  took  his  cap  in  his  hand ;  then  he 
bowed  and  trembled  and  stammered:  "His  eminence  — 
the  ambassadors  —  Madame  Marguerite  of  Flanders  — ."  He 
did  not  know  what  to  say.  In  truth,  he  was  afraid  of  being 
hung. 

Hung  by  the  populace  for  waiting,  hung  by  the  cardinal  for 
not  having  waited,  he  saw  between  the  two  dilemmas  only  an 
abyss ;  that  is  to  say,  a  gallows. 

17 


18  NOTKE-DAME. 

Luckily,  some  one  came  to  rescue  him  from  his  embarrass- 
ment, and  assume  the  responsibility. 

An  individual  who  was  standing  beyond  the  railing,  in  the 
free  space  around  the  marble  table,  and  whom  no  one  had  yet 
caught  sight  of,  since  his  long,  thin  body  was  completely  shel- 
tered from  every  visual  ray  by  the  diameter  of  the  pillar 
against  which  he  was  leaning;  this  individual,  we  say,  tall, 
gaunt,  pallid,  blond,  still  young,  although  already  wrinkled 
about  the  brow  and  cheeks,  with  brilliant  eyes  and  a  smiling 
mouth,  clad  in  garments  of  black  serge,  worn  and  shining 
with  age,  approached  the  marble  table,  and  made  a  sign  to  the 
poor  sufferer.  But  the  other  was  so  confused  that  he  did  not 
see  him.  The  new  comer  advanced  another  step. 

"  Jupiter,"  said  he,  "  my  dear  Jupiter ! " 

The  other  did  not  hear. 

At  last,  the  tall  blond,  driven  out  of  patience,  shrieked 
almost  in  his  face,  — 

"Michel  Giborne!" 

"  Who  calls  me  ?  "  said  Jupiter,  as  though  awakened  with  a 
start. 

"  I,"  replied  the  person  clad  in  black. 

"  Ah ! "  said  Jupiter. 

"  Begin  at  once,"  went  on  the  other.  "  Satisfy  the  popu- 
lace; I  undertake  to  appease  the  bailiff,  who  will  appease 
monsieur  the  cardinal." 

Jupiter  breathed  once  more. 

"  Messeigneurs  the  bourgeois,"  he  cried,  at  the  top  of  his 
lungs  to  the  crowd,  which  continued  to  hoot  him,  "we  are 
going  to  begin  at  once." 

" Evoe  Jupiter!  Plaudite  civesf  All  hail,  Jupiter!  Ap- 
plaud, citizens ! "  shouted  the  scholars. 

"  Noel !  Noel !  good,  good,"  shouted  the  people. 

The  hand  clapping  was  deafening,  and  Jupiter  had  already 
withdrawn  under  his  tapestry,  while  the  hall  still  trembled 
with  acclamations. 

In  the  meanwhile,  the  personage  who  had  so  magically 
turned  the  tempest  into  dead  calm,  as  our  old  and  dear  Cor- 
neille  puts  it,  had  modestly  retreated  to  the  half-shadow  of 


PIERRE  GRINGOIRE.  19 

his  pillar,  and  would,  no  doubt,  have  remained  invisible  there, 
motionless,  and  mute  as  before,  had  he  not  been  plucked  by 
the  sleeve  by  two  young  women,  who,  standing  in  the  front 
row  of  the  spectators,  had  noticed  his  colloquy  with  Michel 
Giborne-Jupiter. 

"  Master,"  said  one  of  them,  making  him  a  sign  to  approach. 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  my  dear  Lienarde,"  said  her  neighbor, 
pretty,  fresh,  and  very  brave,  in  consequence  of  being  dressed 
up  in  her  best  attire.  "  He  is  not  a  clerk,  he  is  a  layman ; 
you  must  not  say  master  to  him,  but  uiessire." 

"  Messire,"  said  Lienarde. 

The  stranger  approached  the  railing. 

"  What  would  you  have  of  me,  damsels  ?  "  he  asked,  with 
alacrity. 

"  Oh !  nothing,"  replied  Lienarde,  in  great  confusion ;  "  it 
is  my  neighbor,  Gisquette  la  Gencienne,  who  wishes  to  speak 
with  you." 

"Not  so,"  replied  Gisquette,  blushing;  "it  was  Lienarde 
who  called  you  master ;  I  only  told  her  to  say  messire." 

The  two  young  girls  dropped  their  eyes.  The  man,  who 
asked  nothing  better  than  to  enter  into  conversation,  looked 
at  them  with  a  smile. 

"  So  you  have  nothing  to  say  to  me,  damsels  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  nothing  at  all,"  replied  Gisquette. 

"Nothing,"  said  Lienarde.  « 

The  tall,  light-haired  young  man  retreated  a  step ;  but  the 
two  curious  maidens  had  no  mind  to  let  slip  their  prize. 

"Messire,"  said  Gisquette,  with  the  impetuosity  of  an 
open  sluice,  or  of  a  woman  who  has  made  up  her  mind, 
"  do  you  know  that  soldier  who  is  to  play  the  part  of  Madame 
the  Virgin  in  the  mystery  ?  " 

"  You  mean  the  part  of  Jupiter  ?  "  replied  the  stranger 

"  He !  yes,"  said  Lienarde,  "  isn't  she  stupid  ?  So  you  know 
Jupiter  ?  " 

"Michel  Giborne  ?"  replied  the  unknown;  ;'yes,  madam." 

"He  has  a  fine  beard  ! "  said  Lienarde. 

"  Will  what  they  are  about  to  say  here  be  fine  ?  "  inquired 
Gisquette,  timidly. 


20  NOTRE-DAME. 

"Very  fine,  mademoiselle,"  replied  the  unknown,  without 
the  slightest  hesitation. 

"  What  is  it  to  be  ?  "  said  Lienarde. 

" '  The .  Good  Judgment  of  Madame  the  Virgin,'  —  a  moral- 
ity, if  you  please,  damsel." 

"  Ah !  that  makes  a  difference,"  responded  Lienarde. 

A  brief  silence  ensued  —  broken  by  the  stranger. 

"  It  is  a  perfectly  new  morality,  and  one  which  has  never 
yet  been  played." 

"  Then  it  is  not  the  same  one,"  said  Gisquette,  "  that  was 
given  two  years  ago,  on  the  day  of  the  entrance  of  monsieur 
the  legate,  and  where  three  handsome  maids  played  the 
parts  —  " 

"  Of  sirens,"  said  Lienarde. 

"  And  all  naked,"  added  the  young  man. 

Lienarde  lowered  her  eyes  modestly.  Gisquette  glanced  at 
her  and  did  the  same.  He  continued,  with  a  smile,  — 

"  It  was  a  very  pleasant  thing  to  see.  To-day  it  is  a  moral- 
ity made  expressly  for  Madame  the  Demoiselle  of  Flanders." 

"  Will  they  sing  shepherd  songs  ?  "  inquired  Gisquette. 

"Fie!"  said  the  stranger,  "in  a  morality?  you  must  not 
confound  styles.  If  it  were  a  farce,  well  and  good." 

"That  is  a  pity,"  resumed  Gisquette.  "That  day,  at  the 
Ponceau  Fountain,  there  were  wild  men  and  women,  who 
fought  and  assumed  many  aspects,  as  they  sang  little  motets 
and  bergerettes." 

"  That  which  is  suitable  for  a  legate,"  returned  the  stran- 
ger, with  a  good  deal  of  dryness,  "  is  not  suitable  for  a  prin- 
cess." 

"  And  beside  them,"  resumed  Lienarde,  "  played  many  brass 
instruments,  making  great  melodies." 

"And  for  the  refreshment  of  the  passers-by,"  continued 
Gisquette,  "the  fountain  spouted  through  three  mouths, 
wine,  milk,  and  hippocrass,  of  which  every  one  drank  who 
\vished." 

"And  a  little  below  the  Ponceau,  at  the  Trinity,"  pursued 
Lienarde,  "there  was  a  passion  performed,  and  without  any 
speaking." 


PIERRE  GRINGOIHE.  21 

"  How  well  I  remember  that !  "  exclaimed  Gisquette  ;  "  God 
on  the  cross,  and  the  two  thieves  on  the  right  and  the  left." 

Here  the  young  gossips,  growing  Avarm  at  the  memory  of 
the  entrance  of  monsieur  the  legate,  both  began  to  talk  at 
once. 

"And,  further  on,  at  the  Painters'  Gate,  there  were  other 
personages,  very  richly  clad." 

"And  at  the  fountain  of  Saint-Innocent,  that  huntsman, 
who  was  chasing  a  hind  with  great  clamor  of  dogs  and  hunt- 
ing-horns." 

"And  at  the  Paris  slaughter-houses,  stages,  representing 
the  fortress  of  Dieppe  ! " 

"  And  when  the  legate  passed,  you  remember,  Gisquette  ? 
they  made  the  assault,  and  the  English  all  had  their  throats 
cut." 

"  And  against  the  gate  of  the  Chatelet,  there  were  very  fine 
personages ! " 

"  And  on  the  Port  au  Change,  which  was  all  draped  above ! " 

"  And  when  the  legate  passed,  they  let  fly  on  the  bridge 
more  than  two  hundred  sorts  of  birds ;  wasn't  it  beautiful, 
Lienarde  ?  " 

"  It  will  be  better  to-day,"  finally  resumed  their  interlocu- 
tor, who  seemed  to  listen  to  them  with  impatience. 

"  Do  you  promise  us  that  this  mystery  will  be  fine  ?  "  said 
Gisquette. 

"  Without  doubt,"  he  replied ;  then  he  added,  with  a  cer- 
tain emphasis,  —  "I  am  the  author  of  it,  damsels." 

"  Truly  ?  "  said  the  young  girls,  quite  taken  aback. 

"  Truly  ! "  replied  the  poet,  bridling  a  little ;  "  that  is,  to 
say,  there  are  two  of  us ;  Jehan  Marchand,  who  has  sawed  the 
planks  and  erected  the  framework  of  the  theatre  and  the 
woodwork ;  and  I,  who  have  made  the  piece.  My  name  is 
Pierre  Gringoire." 

The  author  of  the  "  Cid  "  could  not  have  said  "  Pierre  Cor- 
neille  "  with  more  pride. 

Our  readers  have  been  able  to  observe,  that  a  certain 
amount  of  time  must  have  already  elapsed  from  the  moment 
when  Jupiter  had  retired  beneath  the  tapestry  to  the  instant 


22  -ZVO  TEE-DA  ME. 

when  the  author  of  the  new  morality  had  thus  abruptly 
revealed  himself  to  the  innocent  admiration  of  Gisquette 
and  Lienarde.  Remarkable  fact :  that  whole  crowd,  so 
tumultuous  but  a  few  moments  before,  now  waited  amiably 
on  the  word  of  the  comedian  ;  which  proves  the  eternal  truth, 
still  experienced  every  day  in  our  theatres,  that  the  best 
means  of  making  the  public  wait  patiently  is  to  assure  them 
that  one  is  about  to  begin  instantly. 

However,  scholar  Johannes  had  not  fallen  asleep. 

"  Hola  he  ! "  he  shouted  suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  the  peace- 
able waiting  which  had  followed  the  tumult.  "  Jupiter,  Ma- 
dame the  Virgin,  buffoons  of  the  devil !  are  you  jeering  at  us  ? 
The  piece !  the  piece !  commence  or  we  will  commence  again !  " 

This  was  all  that  was  needed. 

The  music  of  high  and  low  instruments  immediately  became 
audible  from  the  interior  of  the  stage ;  the  tapestry  was 
raised;  four  personages,  in  motley  attire  and  painted  faces, 
emerged  from  it,  climbed  the  steep  ladder  of  the  theatre,  and, 
arrived  upon  the  upper  platform,  arranged  themselves  in  a 
line  before  the  public,  whom  they  saluted  with  profound  rev 
erences ;  then  the  symphony  ceased. 

The  mystery  was  about  to  begin. 

The  four  personages,  after  having  reaped  a  rich  reward 
of  applause  for  their  reverences,  began,  in  the  midst  of 
profound  silence,  a  prologue,  which  we  gladly  spare  the 
reader.  Moreover,  as  happens  in  our  own  day,  the  public 
was  more  occupied  with  the  costumes  that  the  actors  wore 
than  with  the  roles  that  they  were  enacting ;  and,  in  truth, 
they  were  right.  All  four  were  dressed  in  parti-colored  robes 
of  yellow  and  white,  which  were  distinguished  from  each  other 
only  by  the  nature  of  the  stuff ;  the  first  was  of  gold  and  silver 
brocade ;  the  second,  of  silk ;  the  third,  of  wool ;  the  fourth , 
of  linen.  The  first  of  these  personages  carried  in  his  right 
hand  a  sword ;  the  second,  two  golden  keys ;  the  third,  a  pair 
of  scales ;  the  fourth,  a  spade :  and,  in  order  to  aid  sluggish 
minds  which  would  not  have  seen  clearly  through  the  trans- 
parency of  these  attributes,  there  was  to  be  read,  in  large, 
black  letters,  on  the  hem  of  the  robe  of  brocade.  MY  NAMK 


PIERRE  GRIXGOIKE.  23 

is  NOBILITY  ;  on  the  hem  of  the  silken  robe,  MY  NAME  is 
CLERGY  ;  on  the  hem  of  the  woolen  robe,  MY  NAME  is  MER- 
CHANDISE ;  on  the  hem  of  the  linen  robe,  MY  NAME  is  LABOR. 
The  sex  of  the  two  male  characters  was  briefly  indicated  to 
every  judicious  spectator,  by  their  shorter  robes,  and  by  the 
cap  which  they  wore  on  their  heads ;  while  the  two  female 
characters,  less  briefly  clad,  were  covered  with  hoods. 

Much  ill-will  would  also  have  been  required,  not  to  compre- 
hend, through  the  medium  of  the  poetry  of  the  prologue,  that 
Labor  was  wedded  to  Merchandise,  and  Clergy  to  Nobility, 
and  that  the  two  happy  couples  possessed  in  common  a  mag- 
nificent golden  dolphin,  which  they  desired  to  adjudge  to  the 
fairest  only.  So  they  were  roaming  about  the  world  seeking 
and  searching  for  this  beauty,  and,  after  having  successively 
rejected  the  Queen  of  Golconda,  the  Princess  of  Trebizonde, 
the  daughter  of  the  Grand  Khan  of  Tartary,  etc.,  Labor  and 
Clergy,  Nobility  and  Merchandise,  had  come  to  rest  upon  the 
marble  table  of  the  Palais  de  Justice,  and  to  utter,  in  the 
presence  of  the  honest  audience,  as  many  sentences  and 
maxims  as  could  then  be  dispensed  at  the  Faculty  of  Arts, 
at  examinations,  sophisms,  determinances,  figures,  and  acts, 
where  the  masters  took  their  degrees. 

All  this  was,  in  fact,  very  fine. 

Nevertheless,  in  that  throng,  upon  which  the  four  allegories 
vied  with  each  other  in  pouring  out  floods  of  metaphors, 
there  was  no  ear  more  attentive,  no  heart  that  palpitated 
more,  not  an  eye  was  more  haggard,  no  neck  more  out- 
stretched, than  the  eye,  the  ear,  the  neck,  and  the  heart  of 
the  author,  of  the  poet,  of  that  brave  Pierre  Gringoire,  who 
had  not  been  able  to  resist,  a  moment  before,  the  joy  of  tell- 
ing his  name  to  two  pretty  girls.  He  had  retreated  a  few 
paces  from  them,  behind  his  pillar,  and  there  he  listened,- 
looked,  enjoyed.  The  amiable  applause  which  had  greeted  the 
beginning  of  his  prologue  was  still  echoing  in  his  bosom, 
and  he  was  completely  absorbed  in  that  species  of  ecstatic 
contemplation  with  which  an  author  beholds  his  ideas  fall, 
one  by  one,  from  the  mouth  of  the  actor  into  the  vast  silence 
of  the  audience.  Worthy  Pierre  Gringoire  ! 


24  NOTRE-DAME. 

It  pains  us  to  say  it,  but  this  first  ecstasy  was  speedily  dis- 
turbed. Hardly  had  Gringoire  raised  this  intoxicating  cup  of 
joy  and  triumph  to  his  lips,  when  a  drop  of  bitterness  was 
mingled  with  it. 

A  tattered  mendicant,  who  could  not  collect  any  coins,  lost 
as  he  was  in  the  midst  of  the  crowd,  and  who  had  not  proba- 
bly found  sufficient  indemnity  in  the  pockets  of  his  neighbors, 
had  hit  upon  the  idea  of  perching  himself  upon  some  conspic- 
uous point,  in  order  to  attract  looks  and  alms.  He  had, 
accordingly,  hoisted  himself,  during  the  first  verses  of  the 
prologue,  with  the  aid  of  the  pillars  of  the  reserve  gallery,  to 
the  cornice  which  ran  round  the  balustrade  at  its  lower  edge , 
and  there  he  had  seated  himself,  soliciting  the  attention  and 
the  pity  of  the  multitude,  with  his  rags  and  a  hideous  sore 
which  covered  his  right  arm.  However,  he  uttered  not  a 
word. 

The  silence  which  he  preserved  allowed  the  prologue  to 
proceed  without  hindrance,  and  no  perceptible  disorder  would 
have  ensued,  if  ill-luck  had  not  willed  that  the  scholar  Joannes 
should  catch  sight,  from  the  heights  of  his  pillar,  of  the 
mendicant  and  his  grimaces.  A  wild  fit  of  laughter  took 
possession  of  the  young  scamp,  who,  without  caring  that  he 
was  interrupting  the  spectacle,  and  disturbing  the  universal 
composure,  shouted  boldly,  — 

"Look  !  see  that  sickly  creature  asking  alms  !" 

Any  one  who  has  thrown  a  stone  into  a  frog  pond,  or  fired  a 
shot  into  a  covey  of  birds,  can  form  an  idea  of  the  effect  pro- 
duced by  these  incongruous  words,  in  the  midst  of  the  general 
attention.  It  made  Gringoire  shudder  as  though  it  had  been 
an  electric  shock.  The  prologue  stopped  short,  and  all  heads 
turned  tumultuously  towards  the  beggar,  who,  far  from  being 
disconcerted  by  this,  saw,  in  this  incident,  a  good  oppor- 
tunity for  reaping  his  harvest,  and  who  began  to  whine  in 
a  doleful  way,  half  closing  his  eyes  the  while,  —  "Charity, 
please ! " 

"  Well  —  upon  my  soul,"  resumed  Joannes,  "  it's  Clopin 
Trouillefou !  Hola  he,  my  friend,  did  your  sore  bother  you 
on  the  leg,  that  you  have  transferred  it  to  your  arm  ?  " 


PIERRE  GRINGOIRE.  25 

So  sayincr,  with  the  dexterity  of  a  monkey,  he  flung  a  bit  of 
silver  into  the  gray  felt  hat  which  the  beggar  held  in  his  ail 
ing  arm.  The  mendicant  received  both  the  alms  and  the  sar- 
casm without  wincing,  and  continued,  in  lamentable  tones,  — 
"  Charity,  please ! " 

This  episode  considerably  distracted  the  attention  of  the 
audience;  and  a  goodly  number  of  spectators,  among  them 
Itobin  Poussepain,  and  all  the  clerks  at  their  head,  gayly 
applauded  this  eccentric  duet,  which  the  scholar,  with  his 
shrill  voice,  and  the  mendicant  had  just  improvised  in  the 
middle  of  the  prologue. 

Gringoire  was  highly  displeased.  On  recovering  from  his 
first  stupefaction,  he  bestirred  himself  to  shout,  to  the  four 
personages  on  the  stage,  "  Go  on !  What  the  devil !  —  go  on  ! " 
—  without  even  deigning  to  cast  a  glance  of  disdain  upon  the 
two  interrupters. 

At  that  moment,  he  felt  some  one  pluck  at  the  hem  of  his 
surtout ;  he  turned  round,  and  not  without  ill-humor,  and 
found  considerable  difficulty  in  smiling;  but  he  was  obliged 
to  do  so,  nevertheless.  It  was  the  pretty  arm  of  Gisquette  la 
Gencienne,  which,  passed  through  the  railing,  was  soliciting 
his  attention  in  this  manner. 

"  Monsieur,"  said  the  young  girl,  "are  tney  going  to  con 
tinue  ?  " 

"  Of  course,"  replied  Gringoire,  a  good  deal  shocked  by  the 
question. 

"  In  that  case,  messire,"  she  resumed,  "  would  you  have  the 
courtesy  to  explain  to  me  —  " 

"  What  they  are  about  to  say  ? "  interrupted  Gringoire. 
«  Well,  listen." 

"  No,"  said  Gisquette,  "  but  what  they  have  said  so  far." 

Gringoire  started,  like  a  man  whose  wound  has  been  probed 
to  the  quick. 

"  A  plague  on  the  stupid  and  dull-witted  little  girl ! "  he 
muttered,  between  his  teeth. 

From  that  moment  forth,  Gisquette  was  nothing  to 
him. 

In  the  meantime,  the  actors  had  obeyed  his  injunction,  and 


26  NOTRE-DAME. 

the  public,  seeing  that  they  were  beginning  to  speak  again, 
began  once  more  to  listen,  not  without  having  lost  many 
beauties  in  the  sort  of  soldered  joint  which  was  formed 
between  the  two  portions  of  the  piece  thus  abruptly  ciit 
short.  Gringoire  commented  on  it  bitterly  to  himself.  Nev- 
ertheless, tranquillity  was  gradually  restored,  the  scholar  held 
his  peace,  the  mendicant  counted  over  some  coins  in  his  hat, 
and  the  piece  resumed  the  upper  hand. 

it  was,  in  fact,  a  very  fine  work,  and  one  which,  as  it  seems 
to  us,  might  be  put  to  use  to-day,  by  the  aid  of  a  little  re- 
arrangement. The  exposition,  rather  long  and  rather  empty? 
that  is  to  say,  according  to  the  rules,  was  simple ;  and  Grin- 
goire, in  the  candid  sanctuary  of  his  own  conscience,  admired 
its  clearness.  As  the  reader  may  surmise,  the  four  allegorical 
personages  were  somewhat  weary  with  having  traversed  the 
three  sections  of  the  world,  without  having  found  suitable 
opportunity  for  getting  rid  of  their  golden  dolphin.  There- 
upon a  eulogy  of  the  marvellous  fish,  with  a  thousand  delicate 
allusions  to  the  young  betrothed  of  Marguerite  of  Flanders, 
then  sadly  cloistered  in.  at  Amboise,  and  without  a  suspicion 
that  Labor  and  Clergy,  Nobility  and  Merchandise  had  just 
made  the  circuit  of  the  world  in  his  behalf.  The  said  dau- 
phin was  then  young,  was  handsome,  was  stout,  and,  above 
all  (magnificent  origin  of  all  royal  virtues),  he  was  the  son  of 
the  Lion  of  France.  I  declare  that  this  bold  metaphor  is 
admirable,  and  that  the  natural  history  of  the  theatre,  on  a 
day  of  allegory  and  royal  marriage  songs,  is  not  in  the  least 
startled  by  a  dolphin  who  is  the  son  of  a  lion.  It  is  precisely 
these  rare  and  Pindaric  mixtures  which  prove  the  poet's  enthu- 
siasm. Nevertheless,  in  order  to  play  the  part  of  critic  also, 
the  poet  might  have  developed  this  beautiful  idea  in  some- 
thing less  than  two  hundred  lines.  It  is  true  that  the  mys- 
tery was  to  last  from  noon  until  four  o'clock,  in  accordance 
with  the  orders  of  monsieur  the  provost,  and  that  it  was 
necessary  to  say  something.  Besides,  the  people  listened 
patiently. 

All  at  once,  in  the  very  middle  of  a  quarrel  between  Mad- 
emoiselle Merchandise  and  Madame  Nobility,  at  the  moment 


THE  GRAND  HALL.  27 

when  Monsieur  Labor  was  giving  utterance  to  this  wonderful 
line,  — 

In  forest  ne'er  was  seen  a  more  triumphant  beast; 

the  door  of  the  reserved  gallery  which  had  hitherto  remained 
so  inopportunely  closed,  opened  still  more  inopportunely ;  and 
the  ringing  voice  of  the  usher  announced  abruptly,  "His 
eminence,  Monseigneur  the  Cardinal  de  Bourbon." 


jSBfr» 


CHAPTER  IIL 


MONSIEUR    THE    CARDINAL. 

POOR  Gringoire !  the  din  of  all  the  great  double  petards  of 
the  Saint-Jean,  the  discharge  of  twenty  arquebuses  on  sup- 
ports, the  detonation  of  that  famous  serpentine  of  the  Tower 
of  Billy,  which,  during  the  siege  of  Paris,  on  Sunday,  the 
twenty-sixth  of  September,  1465,  killed  seven  Burgundians  at 
one  blow,  the  explosion  of  all  the  powder  stored  at  the  gate 
of  the  Temple,  would  have  rent  his  ears  less  rudely  at  that 
solemn  and  dramatic  moment,  than  these  few  words,  which 
fell  from  the  lips  of  the  usher,  "  His  eminence,  Monseigneur 
the  Cardinal  de  Bourbon." 

It  is  not  that  Pierre  Gringoire  either  feared  or  disdained 
monsieur  the  cardinal.  He  had  neither  the  weakness  nor  the 
audacity  for  that.  A  true  eclectic,  as  it  would  be  expressed 
nowadays,  Gringoire  was  one  of  those  firm  and  lofty,  moderate 
and  calm  spirits,  which  always  know  how  to  bear  themselves 
amid  all  circumstances  (stare  in  dimidio  reruni),  and  who 
are  full  of  reason  and  of  liberal  philosophy,  while  still  set- 
ting store  by  cardinals.  A  rare,  precious,  and  never  inter- 
rupted race  of  philosophers  to  -whom  wisdom,  like  another 
Ariadne,  seems  to  have  given  a  clew  of  thread  which  they 
have  been  -walking  along  unwinding  since  the  beginning  of 
the  world,  through  the  labyrinth  of  human  affairs.  One  finds 
them  in  all  ages,  ever  the  same ;  that  is  to  say,  always  accord- 
ing to  all  times.  And,  without  reckoning  our  Pierre  Grin- 
goire, who  may  represent  them  in  the  fifteenth  century  if  we 

28 


MONSIEUR    THE  CARDINAL.  29 

succeed  in  bestowing  upon  him  the  distinction  which  he 
deserves,  it  certainly  was  their  spirit  which  animated  Father 
du  Breul,  when  he  wrote,  in  the  sixteenth,  these  naively  sub- 
lime words,  worthy  of  all  centuries :  "  I  am  a  Parisian  by 
nation,  and  a  Parrhisian  in  language,  for  parrhisia  in  Greek 
signifies  liberty  of  speech  j  of  which  I  have  made  use  even 
towards  messeigneurs  the  cardinals,  uncle  and  brother  to 
Monsieur  the  Prince  de  Conty,  always  with  respect  to  their 
greatness,  and  without  offending  any  one  of  their  suite,  which 
is  much  to  say." 

There  was  then  neither  hatred  for  the  cardinal,  nor  disdain 
for  his  presence,  in  the  disagreeable  impression  produced 
upon  Pierre  Gringoire.  Quite  the  contrary;  our  poet  had 
too  much  good  sense  and  too  threadbare  a  coat,  not  to 
attach  particular  importance  to  having  the  numerous  allusions 
in  his  prologue,  and,  in  particular,  the  glorification  of  the  dau- 
phin, son  of  the  Lion  of  France,  fall  upon  the  most  eminent 
ear.  But  it  is  not  interest  which  predominates  in  the  noble 
nature  of  poets.  I  suppose  that  the  entity  of  the  poet  may 
be  represented  by  the  number  ten ;  it  is  certain  that  a  chemist 
on  analyzing  and  pharmacopolizing  it,  as  Rabelais  says,  would 
find  it  composed  of  one  part  interest  to  nine  parts  of  self- 
esteem. 

Now,  at  the  moment  when  the  door  had  opened  to  admit 
the  cardinal,  the  nine  parts  of  self-esteem  in  Gringoire, 
swollen  and  expanded  by  the  breath  of  popular  admiration, 
were  in  a  state  of  prodigious  augmentation,  beneath  which 
disappeared,  as  though  stifled,  that  imperceptible  molecule  of 
interest  which  we  have  just  remarked  upon  in  the  constitu- 
tion of  poets ;  a  precious  ingredient,  by  the  way,  a  ballast  of 
reality  and  humanity,  without  which  they  would  not  touch 
the  earth.  Gringoire  enjoyed  seeing,  feeling,  fingering,  so  to 
speak,  an  entire  assembly  (of  knaves,  it  is  true,  but  what  mat- 
ters that  ?)  stupefied,  petrified,  and  as  though  asphyxiated  in 
the  presence  of  the  incommensurable  tirades  which  welled  up 
every  instant  from  all  parts  of  his  bridal  song.  I  affirm  that 
he  shared  the  general  beatitude,  and  that,  quite  the  reverse  <  f 


30  NOTRE-DAME. 

La  Fontaine,  who,  at  the  presentation  of  his  comedy  of  the 
"Florentine,"  asked,  "Who  is  the  ill-bred  lout  who  made 
that  rhapsody  ?  "  Gringoire  would  gladly  have  inquired  of  his 
neighbor,  "  Whose  masterpiece  is  this  ?  " 

The  reader  can  now  judge  of  the  effect  produced  upon  him 
by  the  abrupt  and  unseasonable  arrival  of  the  cardinal. 

That  which  he  had  to  fear  was  only  too  fully  realized. 
The  entrance  of  his  eminence  upset  the  audience.  All  heads 
turned  towards  the  gallery.  It  was  no  longer  possible  to 
hear  one's  self.  "  The  cardinal !  The  cardinal ! "  repeated 
all  mouths.  The  unhappy  prologue  stopped  short  for  the 
second  time. 

The  cardinal  halted  for  a  moment  on  the  threshold  of 
the  estrade.  While  he  was  sending  a  rather  indifferent 
glance  around  the  audience,  the  tumult  redoubled.  Each 
person  wished  to  get  a  better  view  of  him.  Each  man  vied 
with  the  other  in  thrusting  his  head  over  his  neighbor's 
shoulder. 

He  was,  in  fact,  an  exalted  personage,  the  sight  of  whom  was 
well  worth  any  other  comedy.  Charles,  Cardinal  de  Bourbon, 
Archbishop  and  Comte  of  Lyon,  Primate  of  the  Gauls,  was 
allied  both  to  Louis  XL,  through  his  brother,  Pierre,  Seigneur 
de  Beaujeu,  who  had  married  the  king's  eldest  daughter,  and 
to  Charles  the  Bold  through  his  mother,  Agnes  of  Burgundy. 
Now,  the  dominating  trait,  the  peculiar  and  distinctive  trait 
of  the  character  of  the  Primate  of  the  Gauls,  was  the  spirit 
of  the  courtier,  and  devotion  to  the  powers  that  be.  The 
reader  can  form  an  idea  of  the  numberless  embarrassments 
which  this  double  relationship  had  caused  him,  and  of  all 
the  temporal  reefs  among  which  his  spiritual  bark  had  been 
forced  to  tack,  in  order  not  to  suffer  shipwreck  on  either 
Louis  or  Charles,  that  Scylla  and  that  Charybdis  which  had 
devoured  the  Due  de  Nemours  and  the  Constable  de  Saint- 
Pol.  Thanks  to  Heaven's  mercy,  he  had  made  the  voyage 
successfully,  and  had  reached  home  without  hindrance.  But 
although  he  was  in  port,  and  precisely  because  he  was  in 
port,  he  never  recalled  without  disquiet  the  varied  haps  of 


MONSIEUR   THE  CARDINAL.  31 

his  political  career,  so  long  uneasy  and  laborious.  Thus,  he 
was  in  the  habit  of  saying  that  the  year  1476  had  been 
"white  and  black"  for  him  —  meaning  thereby,  that  in  the 
course  of  that  year  he  had  lost  his  mother,  the  Duchesse  de 
la  Bourbonnais,  and  his  cousin,  the  Duke  of  Burgundy,  and 
that  one  grief  had  consoled  him  for  the  other. 

Xevertheless,  he  was  a  fine  man  ;  he  led  a  joyous  cardinal's 
life,  liked  to  enliven  himself  with  the  royal  vintage  of  Chal- 
luau,  did  not  hate  Eicharde  la  Garmoise  and  Thomasse  la 
Saillarde,  bestowed  alms  on  pretty  girls  rather  than  on  old 
women,  —  and  for  all  these  reasons  was  very  agreeable  to  the 
populace  of  Paris.  He  never  went  about  otherwise  than  sur- 
rounded by  a  small  court  of  bishops  and  abbes  of  high  lineage, 
gallant,  jovial,  and  given  to  carousing  on  occasion;  and  more 
than  once  the  good  and  devout  women  of  Saint  Germain 
d'  Auxerre,  when  passing  at  night  beneath  the  brightly  illumi- 
nated windows  of  Bourbon,  had  been  scandalized  to  hear  the 
same  voices  which  had  intoned  vespers  for  them  during  the 
day  carolling,  to  the  clinking  of  glasses,  the  bacchic  proverb  of 
Benedict  XII.,  that  pope  who  had  added  a  third  crown  to  the 
tiara  —  Biba  mus  papaliter. 

It  was  this  justly  acquired  popularity,  no  doubt,  which  pre- 
served him  on  his  entrance  from  any  bad  reception  at  the 
hands  of  the  mob,  which  had  been  so  displeased  but  a  mo- 
ment before,  and  very  little  disposed  to  respect  a  cardinal  on 
the  very  day  when  it  was  to  elect  a  pope.  But  the  Parisians 
cherish  little  rancor;  and  then,  having  forced  the  beginning 
of  the  play  by  their  authority,  the  good  bourgeois  had  got  the 
upper  hand  of  the  cardinal,  and  this  triumph  was  sufficient 
for  them.  Moreover,  the  Cardinal  de  Bourbon  was  a  hand- 
some man,  —  he  wore  a  fine  scarlet  robe,  which  he  carried  off 
very  well,  —  that  is  to  say,  he  had  all  the  women  on  his  side, 
and,  consequently,  the  best  half  of  the  audience.  Assuredly, 
it  would  be  injustice  and  bad  taste  to  hoot  a  cardinal  for  hav- 
ing come  late  to  the  spectacle,  when  he  is  a  handsome  man, 
and  when  he  wears  his  scarlet  robe  well. 

He  entered,  then,  bowed  to  those  present  with  the  heredi- 


32  NOTRE-DAME. 

tary  smile  of  the  great  for  the  people,  and  directed  his  course 
slowly  towards  his  scarlet  velvet  arm-chair,  with  the  air  of 
thinking  of  something  quite  different.  His  cortege  —  what 
we  should  nowadays  call  his  staff  —  of  bishops  and  abbes 
invaded  the  estrade  in  his  train,  not  without  causing  re- 
doubled tumult  and  curiosity  among  the  audience.  Each 
man  vied  with  his  neighbor  in  pointing  them  out  and  naming 
them,  in  seeing  who  should  recognize  at  least  one  of  them : 
this  one,  the  Bishop  of  Marseilles  (Alaudet,  if  my  memory 
serves  me  right)  ;  —  this  one,  the  primicier  of  Saint-Denis  ;  — ' 
this  one,  Robert  de  Lespinasse,  Abbe  of  Saint-Germain  des 
Pres,  that  libertine  brother  of  a  mistress  of  Louis  XI. ;  all 
with  many  errors  and  absurdities.  As  for  the  scholars,  they 
swore.  This  was  their  day,  their  feast  of  fools,  their  saturna- 
lia, the  annual  orgy  of  the  corporation  of  law  clerks  and  of 
the  school.  There  was  no  turpitude  which  was  not  sacred  on 
that  day.  And  then  there  were  gay  gossips  in  the  crowd  — 
Simone  Quatrelivres,  Agnes  la  Gadine,  and  Eabine  Piedebou. 
Was  it  not  the  least  that  one  could  do  to  swear  at  one's  ease 
and  revile  the  name  of  God  a  little,  on  so  fine  a  day,  in  such 
good  company  as  dignitaries  of  the  church  and  loose  women  ? 
So  they  did  not  abstain  ;  and,  in  the  midst  of  the  uproar,  there 
was  a  frightful  concert  of  blasphemies  and  enormities  of  all 
the  unbridled  tongues,  the  tongues  of  clerks  and  students 
restrained  during  the  rest  of  the  year,  by  the  fear  of  the  hot 
iron  of  Saint  Louis.  Poor  Saint  Louis  !  how  they  set  him  at 
defiance  in  his  own  court  of  law !  Each  one  of  them  selected 
from  the  new-comers  on  the  platform,  a  black,  gray,  white, 
or  violet  cassock  as  his  target.  Joannes  Frollo  de  Molen- 
dino,  in  his  quality  of  brother  to  an  archdeacon,  boldly 
attacked  the  scarlet;  he  sang  in  deafening  tones,  with  his 
impudent  eyes  fastened  on  the  cardinal,  "  Cappa  repleta 
mero  !  " 

All  these  details  which  we  here  lay  bare  for  the  edification 
of  the  reader,  were  so  covered  by  the  general  uproar,  that 
they  were  lost  in  it  before  reaching  the  reserved  platform ; 
moreover,  they  would  have  moved  the  cardinal  but  little,  so 


MONSIEUR    THE  CARDINAL.  33 

much  a  part  of  the  customs  were  the  liberties  of  that  day. 
Moreover,  he  had  another  cause  for  solicitude,  and  his  mien 
was  wholly  preoccupied  with  it,  which  entered  the  estrade 
at  the  same  time  as  himself;  this  was  the  embassy  from 
Flanders. 

Xot  that  he  was  a  profound  politician,  nor  was  he  borrowing 
trouble  about  the  possible  consequences  of  the  marriage  of 
his  cousin  Marguerite  de  Bourgoyne  to  his  cousin  Charles, 
1  )auphin  de  Vienne ;  nor  as  to  how  long  the  good  understand- 
ing which  had  been  patched  up  between  the  Duke  of  Austria 
and  the  King  of  France  would  last ;  nor  how  the  King  of 
England  would  take  this  disdain  of  his  daughter.  All  that 
troubled  him  but  little ;  and  he  gave  a  warm  reception  every 
evening  to  the  wine  of  the  royal  vintage  of  Chaillot,  without 
a  suspicion  that  several  flasks  of  that  same  wine  (somewhat 
revised  and  corrected,  it  is  true,  by  Doctor  Coictier),  cordially 
offered  to  Edward  IV.  by  Louis  XL,  would,  some  fine  morn- 
ing, rid  Louis  XL  of  Edward  IV.  "The  much  honored  em- 
bassy of  Monsieur  the  Duke  of  Austria,"  brought  the  cardinal 
none  of  these  cares,  but  it  troubled  him  in  another  direction. 
It  was,  in  fact,  somewhat  hard,  and  we  have  already  hinted 
at  it  on  the  second  page  of  this  book,  —  for  him,  Charles  de 
Bourbon,  to  be  obliged  to  feast  and  receive  cordially  no  one 
knows  what  bourgeois  ;  —  for  him,  a  cardinal,  to  receive  alder- 
men;—  for  him,  a  Frenchman,  and  a  jolly  companion,  to 
receive  Flemish  beer-drinkers,  —  and  that  in  public!  This 
was,  certainly,  one  of  the  most  irksome  grimaces  that  he  had 
ever  executed  for  the  good  pleasure  of  the  king. 

So  he  turned  toward  the  door,  and  with  the  best  grace  in 
the  world  (so  well  had  he  trained  himself  to  it),  when  the 
usher  announced,  in  a  sonorous  voice,  "  Messieurs  the  Envoys 
of  Monsieur  the  Duke  of  Austria."  It  is  useless  to  add  that 
the  whole  hall  did  the  same. 

Then  arrived,  two  by  two,  with  a  gravity  which  made  a 
contrast  in  the  midst  of  the  frisky  ecclesiastical  escort  of 
Charles  de  Bourbon,  the  eight  and  forty  ambassadors  of  Max- 
imilian of  Austria,  having  at  their  head  the  reverend  Father 


34  NOTRE-DAME. 

iii  God,  Jehan,  Abbot  of  Saint-Bertin,  Chancellor  of  the 
Golden  Fleece,  and  Jacques  de  Goy,  Sieur  Dauby,  Grand  Bailiff 
of  Ghent.  A  deep  silence  settled  over  the  assembly,  accom- 
panied by  stifled  laughter  at  the  preposterous  names  and  all 
the  bourgeois  designations  which  each  of  these  personages 
transmitted  with  imperturbable  gravity  to  the  usher,  who  then 
tossed  names  and  titles  pell-mell  and  mutilated  to  the  crowd 
below.  There  were  Master  Loys  Roelof,  alderman  of  the  city 
of  Louvain ;  Messire  Clays  d'Etuelde,  alderman  of  Brussels ; 
Messire  Paul  de  Baeust,  Sieur  de  Voirmizelle,  President  of 
Flanders ;  Master  Jehan  Coleghens,  burgomaster  of  the  city 
of  Antwerp  ;  Master  George  de  la  Moere,  first  alderman  of  the 
kuere  of  the  city  of  Ghent ;  Master  Gheldolf  van  der  Hage, 
first  alderman  of  the  parchons  of  the  said  town ;  and  the 
Sieur  de  Bierbecque,  and  Jehan  Pinnock,  and  Jehan  Dymaer- 
zelle,  etc.,  etc.,  etc. ;  bailiffs,  aldermen,  burgomasters ;  burgo- 
masters, aldermen,  bailiffs  —  all  stiff,  affectedly  grave,  formal, 
dressed  out  in  velvet  and  damask,  hooded  with  caps  of  black 
velvet,  with  great  tufts  of  Cyprus  gold  thread;  good  Flemish 
heads,  after  all,  severe  and  worthy  faces,  of  the  family  which 
Rembrandt  makes  to  stand  out  so  strong  and  grave  from  the 
black  background  of  his  "  Night  Patrol " ;  personages  all  of 
whom  bore,  written  on  their  brows,  that  Maximilian  of  Aus- 
tria had  done  well  in  "  trusting  implicitly,"  as  the  manifest 
ran,  "in  their  sense,  valor,  experience,  loyalty,  and  good 
wisdom." 

There  was  one  exception,  however.  It  was  a  subtle,  intelli- 
gent, crafty-looking  face,  a  sort  of  combined  monkey  and  diplo- 
mat phiz,  before  whom  the  cardinal  made  three  steps  and  a 
profound  bow,  and  whose  name,  nevertheless,  was  only, 
"  Guillaume  Kym,  counsellor  and  pensioner  of  the  City  of 
Ghent." 

Few  persons  were  then  aware  who  Guillaume  Bym  was.  A 
rare  genius  who  in  a  time  of  revolution  would  have  made  a 
brilliant  appearance  on  the  surface  of  events,  but  who  in  the 
fifteenth  century  was  reduced  to  cavernous  intrigues,  and  to 
"living  in  mines,"  as  the  Due  de  Saint-Simon  expresses  it. 


MONSIEUR    THE   CARDINAL. 


35 


Nevertheless,  he  was  appreciated  by  the  "miner"  of  Europe  ; 
he  plotted  familiarly  with  Louis  XI.,  and  often  lent  a  hand  to 
the  king's  secret  jobs.  All  which  things  were  quite  unknown 
to  that  throng,  who  were  amazed  at  the  cardinal's  politeness 
to  that  frail  figure  of  a  Flemish  bailiff. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

MASTER  JACQUES  COPPENOLE. 

WHILE  the  pensioner  of  Ghent  and  his  eminence  were 
exchanging  very  low  bows  and  a  few  words  in  voices  still 
lower,  a  man  of  lofty  stature,  with  a  large  face  and  broad 
shoulders,  presented  himself,  in  order  to  enter  abreast  with 
Guillaume  Rym ;  one  would  have  pronounced  him  a  bull-dog 
by  the  side  of  a  fox.  His  felt  doublet  and  leather  jerkin 
made  a  spot  on  the  velvet  and  silk  which  surrounded  him. 
Presuming  that  he  was  some  groom  who  had  stolen  in,  the 
usher  stopped  him. 

"  Hold,  my  friend,  you  cannot  pass  ! " 

The  man  in  the  leather  jerkin  shouldered  him  aside. 

"  What  does  this  knave  want  with  me  ?  "  said  he,  in  stento- 
rian tones,  which  rendered  the  entire  hall  attentive  to  this 
strange  colloquy.  "  Don't  you  see  that  I  am  one  of  them  ?  " 

"  Your  name  ?  "  demanded  the  usher. 

"  Jacques  Coppenole." 

"  Your  titles  ?  " 

"Hosier  at  the  sign  of  the  'Three  Little  Chains,'  of 
Ghent." 

The  usher  recoiled.  One  might  bring  one's  self  to  announce 
aldermen  and  burgomasters,  but  a  hosier  was  too  much.  The 

36 


MASTEIi  JACQUES   COPPENOLE.  37 

cardiiuil  was  on  thorns.  All  the  people  were  staring  and  lis- 
tening. For  two  days  his  eminence  had  been  exerting  his 
utmost  efforts  to  lick  these  Flemish  bears  into  shape,  and  to 
render  them  a  little  more  presentable  to  the  public,  and  this 
freak  was  startling.  But  Guillaume  Rym,  with  his  polished 
smile,  approached  the  usher. 

"  Announce  Master  Jacques  Coppenole,  clerk  of  the  alder- 
men of  the  city  of  Ghent,"  he  whispered,  very  low. 

"  Usher,"  interposed  the  cardinal,  aloud,  "  announce  Master 
Jacques  Coppenole,  clerk  of  the  aldermen  of  the  illustrious 
city  of  Ghent." 

This  was  a  mistake.  Guillaume  Rym  alone  might  have 
conjured  away  the  difficulty,  but  Coppenole  had  heard  the 
cardinal. 

••  No.  cross  of  God  ?  "  he  exclaimed,  in  his  voice  of  thunder, 
"  Jacques  Coppenole,  hosier.  Do  you  hear,  usher  ?  Nothing 
more,  nothing  less.  Cross  of  God !  hosier ;  that's  fine  enough. 
Monsieur  the  Archduke  has  more  than  once  sought  his  gant  * 
in  my  hose." 

Laughter  and  applause  burst  forth.  A  jest  is  always  under- 
stood in  Paris,  and,  consequently,  always  applauded. 

Let  us  add  that  Coppenole  was  of  the  people,  and  that  the 
auditors  which  surrounded  him  were  also  of  the  people.  Thus 
the  communication  between  him  and  them  had  been  prompt, 
electric,  and,  so  to  speak,  on  a  level.  The  haughty  air  of  the 
Flemish  hosier,  by  humiliating  the  courtiers,  had  touched  in 
all  these  plebeian  souls  that  latent  sentiment  of  dignity  still 
vague  and  indistinct  in  the  fifteenth  century. 

This  hosier  was  an  equal,  who  had  just  held  his  own  before 
monsieur  the  cardinal.  A  very  sweet  reflection  to  poor  fel- 
lows habituated  to  respect  and  obedience  towards  the  under- 
lings of  the  sergeants  of  the  bailiff  of  Sainte-Genevieve,  the 
cardinal's  train-bearer. 

Coppenole  proudly  saluted  his  eminence,  who  returned  the 
salute  of  the  all-powerful  bourgeois  feared  by  Louis  XL 
Then,  while  Guillaume  Rym,  a  "sage  and  malicious  man,"  as 
Philippe  de  Comines  puts  it,  watched  them  both  with  a  smile 

*  Got  the  first  idea  of  a  tiling. 


38  NOTRE-DAME. 

of  raillery  and  superiority,  each  sought  his  place,  the  cardinal 
quite  abashed  and  troubled,  Coppenole  tranquil  and  haughty, 
and  thinking,  no  doubt,  that  his  title  of  hosier  was  as  good  as 
any  other,  after  all,  and  that  Marie  of  Burgundy,  mother  to 
that  Marguerite  whom  Coppenole  was  to-day  bestowing  in 
marriage,  would  have  been  less  afraid  of  the  cardinal  than  of 
the  hosier ;  for  it  is  not  a  cardinal  who  would  have  stirred  up 
a  revolt  among  the  men  of  Ghent  against  the  favorites  of  the 
daughter  of  Charles  the  Bold ;  it  is  not  a  cardinal  who  could 
have  fortified  the  populace  with  a  word  against  her  tears  and 
prayers,  when  the  Maid  of  Flanders  came  to  supplicate  her 
people  in  their  behalf,  even  at  the  very  foot  of  the  scaffold ; 
while  the  hosier  had  only  to  raise  his  leather  elbow,  in  order 
to  cause  to  fall  your  two  heads,  most  illustrious  seigneurs, 
Guy  d'Hymbercourt  and  Chancellor  Guillaume  Hugonet. 

Nevertheless,  all  was  over  for  the  poor  cardinal,  and  he  was 
obliged  to  quaff  to  the  dregs  the  bitter  cup  of  being  in  such 
bad  company. 

The  reader  has,  probably,  not  forgotten  the  impudent  beg< 
gar  who  had  been  clinging  fast  to  the  fringes  of  the  cardinal's 
gallery  ever  since  the  beginning  of  the  prologue.  The  arrival 
of  the  illustrious  guests  had  by  no  means  caused  him  to  relax 
his  hold,  and,  while  the  prelates  and  ambassadors  were  pack- 
ing themselves  into  the  stalls  —  like  genuine  Flemish  herrings 
—  he  settled  himself  at  his  ease,  and  boldly  crossed  his  legs 
on  the  architrave.  The  insolence  of  this  proceeding  was 
extraordinary,  yet  no  one  noticed  it  at  first,  the  attention  of 
all  being  directed  elsewhere.  He,  on  his  side,  perceived  noth- 
ing that  was  going  on  in  the  ball ;  he  wagged  his  head  with 
the  unconcern  of  a  Neapolitan,  repeating  from  time  to  time, 
amid  the  clamor,  as  from  a  mechanical  habit,  "Charity, 
please ! "  And,  assuredly,  he  was,  out  of  all  those  present, 
the  only  one  who  had  not  deigned  to  turn  his  head  at  the 
altercation  between  Coppenole  and  the  usher.  Now,  chance 
ordained  that  the  master  hosier  of  Ghent,  with  whom  the 
people  were  already  in  lively  sympathy,  and  upon  whom  all 
eyes  were  riveted  —  should  come  and  seat  himself  in  the  front 
row  of  the  gallery,  directly  above  the  mendicant ;  and  people 


MASTER  JACQUES   COPPENOLE.  39 

were  not  a  little  amazed  to  see  the  Flemish  ambassador,  on 
concluding  his  inspection  of  the  knave  thus  placed  beneath 
his  eyes,  bestow  a  friendly  tap  on  that  ragged  shoulder.  The 
beggar  turned  round ;  there  was  surprise,  recognition,  a  light- 
ing up  of  the  two  countenances,  and  so  forth ;  then,  without 
paying  the  slightest  heed  in  the  world  to  the  spectators,  the 
hosier  and  the  wretched  being  began  to  converse  in  a  low 
tone,  holding  each  other's  hands,  in  the  meantime,  while  the 
rags  of  Clopin  Trouillefou,  spread  out  upon  the  cloth  of  gold 
of  the  dais,  produced  the  effect  of  a  caterpillar  on  an  orange. 

The  novelty  of  this  singular  scene  excited  such  a  murmur 
of  mirth  and  gayety  in  the  hall,  that  the  cardinal  was  not 
slow  to  perceive  it;  he  half  bent  forward,  and,  as  from  the 
point  where  he  was  placed  he  could  catch  only  an  imperfect 
view  of  Trouillerfou's  ignominious  doublet,  he  very  naturally 
imagined  that  the  mendicant  was  asking  alms,  and,  disgusted 
with  his  audacity,  he  exclaimed :  "  Bailiff  of  the  Courts,  toss 
me  that  knave  into  the  river ! " 

"  Cross  of  God  !  monseigneur  the  cardinal/'  said  Coppenole, 
without  quitting  Clopin's  hand,  "  he's  a  friend  of  mine." 

"  Good !  good ! "  shouted  the  populace.  From  that  moment, 
Master  Coppenole  enjoyed  in  Paris  as  in  Ghent,  "great  favor 
with  the  people;  for  men  of  that  sort  do  enjoy  it,"  says 
Philippe  de  Comines,  "when  they  are  thus  disorderly." 

The  cardinal  bit  his  lips.  He  bent  towards  his  neighbor, 
the  Abbe  of  Saint  Genevieve,  and  said  to  him  in  a  low  tone,  — 

"  Fine  ambassadors  monsieur  the  archduke  sends  here,  to 
announce  to  us  Madame  Marguerite  !  " 

"  Your  eminence,"  replied  the  abbe,  "  wastes  your  polite- 
ness on  these  Flemish  swine.  Margaritas  ante  porcos,  pearls 
before  swine." 

••  Say  rather,"  retorted  the  cardinal,  with  a  smile,  "Porcos 
ante  M"i-f/nr!f />//>.  swine  before  the  pearl." 

The  whole  little  court  in  cassocks  went  into  ecstacies  over 
this  play  upon  words.  The  cardinal  felt  a  little  relieved ;  he 
was  quits  with  Coppenole,  he  also  had  had  his  jest  applauded. 

Now,  will  those  of  our  readers  who  possess  the  power  of 
generalizing  an  image  or  an  idea,  as  the  expression  runs  in 


40  NOTRE-DAME. 

the  style  of  to-day,  permit  us  to  ask  them  if  they  have  formed 
a  very  clear  conception  of  the  spectacle  presented  at  this 
moment,  upon  which  we  have  arrested  their  attention,  by  the 
vast  parallelogram  of  the  grand  hall  of  the  palace. 

In  the  middle  of  the  hall,  backed  against  the  western  wall, 
a  large  and  magnificent  gallery  draped  with  cloth  of  gold,  into 
which  enter  in  procession,  through  a  small,  arched  door,  grave 
personages,  announced  successively  by  the  shrill  voice  of  an 
usher.  On  the  front  benches  were  already  a  number  of  ven- 
erable figures,  muffled  in  ermine,  velvet,  and  scarlet.  Around 
the  dais  —  which  remains  silent  and  dignified — below,  oppo- 
site, everywhere,  a  great  crowd  and  a  great  murmur.  Thou- 
sands of  glances  directed  by  the  people  on  each  face  upon  the 
dais,  a  thousand  whispers  over  each  name.  Certainly,  the 
spectacle  is  curious,  and  well  deserves  the  attention  of  the 
spectators.  But  yonder,  quite  at  the  end,  what  is  that  sort 
of  trestle  work  with  four  motley  puppets  upon  it,  and  more 
below  ?  Who  is  that  man  beside  the  trestle,  with  a  black 
doublet  and  a  pale  face  ?  Alas  !  rny  dear  reader,  it  is  Pierre 
Gringoire  and  his  prologue. 

"VVe  have  all  forgotten  him  completely. 

This  is  precisely  what  he  feared. 

From  the  moment  of  the  cardinal's  entrance,  Gringoire  had 
never  ceased  to'  tremble  for  the  safety  of  his  prologue.  At 
first  he  had  enjoined  the  actors,  who  had  stopped  in  suspense, 
to  continue,  and  to  raise  their  voices ;  then,  perceiving  that 
no  one  was  listening,  he  had  stopped  them ;  and.  during  the 
entire  quarter  of  an  hour  that  the  interruption  lasted,  he  ha<:l 
not  ceased  to  stamp,  to  flounce  about,  to  appeal  to  Gisquette 
and  Lienarde,  and  to  urge  his  neighbors  to  the  continuance 
of  the  prologue ;  all  in  vain.  No  one  quitted  the  cardina"/, 
the  embassy,  and  the  gallery  —  sole  centre  of  this  vast  circle 
of  visual  rays.  We  must  also  believe,  and  we  say  it  with 
regret,  that  the  prologue  had  begun  slightly  to  weary  the 
audience  at  the  moment  when  his  eminence  had  arrived, 
and  created  a  diversion  in  so  terrible  a  fashion.  After  all, 
on  the  gallery  as  well  as  on  the  marble  table,  the  spectacle 
was  the  same  :  the  conflict  of  Labor  and  Clergy,  of  Mobility 


MASTER  JACQUES   COPPENOLE.  41 

and  .Merchandise.  And  many  people  preferred  to  see  them 
alive,  breathing,  moving,  elbowing  each  other  in  flesh  and 
blood,  in  this  Flemish  embassy,  in  this  Episcopal  court, 
under  the  cardinal's  robe,  under  Coppeuole's  jerkin,  than 
painted,  decked  out,  talking  in  verse,  and,  so  to  speak,  stuffed 
beneath  the  yellow  and  white  tunics  in  which  Gringoire  had 
so  ridiculously  clothed  them. 

Nevertheless,  when  our  poet  beheld  quiet  reestablished 
to  some  extent,  he  devised  a  stratagem  which  might  have 
redeemed  all. 

"  Monsieur,"  he  said,  turning  towards  one  of  his  neighbors, 
a  fine,  big  man,  with  a  patient  face,  "suppose  we  begin 
again." 

"  What  ?  "  said  his  neighbor. 

"  He !  the  Mystery,"  said  Gringoire. 

"  As  you  like,"  returned  his  neighbor. 

This  semi-approbation  sufficed  for  Gringoire,  and,  conduct- 
ing his  own  affairs,  he  began  to  shout,  confounding  himself 
with  the  crowd  as  much  as  possible :  "  Begin  the  mystery 
again !  begin  again  !  " 

"  The  devil !  "  said  Joannes  de  Molendino,  "  what  are  they 
jabbering  down  yonder,  at  the  end  of  the  hall  ?  "  (for  Grin- 
goire was  making  noise  enough  for  four.)  "  Say,  comrades, 
isn't  that  mystery  finished  ?  They  want  to  begin  it  all  over 
again.  That's  not  fair ! " 

"  Xo,  no ! "  shouted  all  the  scholars.  "  Down  with  the 
mystery  !  Down  with  it !  " 

But  Gringoire  had  multiplied  himself,  and  only  shouted 
the  more  vigorously  :  "  Begin  again  !  begin  again  ! " 

These  clamors  attracted  the  attention  of  the  cardinal. 

"  Monsieur  Bailiff  of  the  Courts,"  said  he  to  a  tall,  black 
man,  placed  a  few  paces  from  him,  "  are  those  knaves  in  a 
holy-water  vessel,  that  they  make  such  a  hellish  noise  ?  " 

The  bailiff  of  the  courts  was  a  sort  of  amphibious  magis- 
trate, a  sort  of  bat  of  the  judicial  order,  related  to  both  the 
rat  and  the  bird,  the  judge  and  the  soldier. 

He  approached  his  eminence,  and  not  without  a  good  deal 
of  fear  of  the  latter's  displeasure,  he  awkwardly  explained  to 


42  NOTRE-DAME. 

him  the  seeming  disrespect  of  the  audience :  that  noonday 
had  arrived  before  his  eminence,  and  that  the  comedians  had 
been  forced  to  begin  without  waiting  for  his  eminence. 

The  cardinal  burst  into  a  laugh. 

"  On  my  faith,  the  rector  of  the  university  ought  to  have 
done  the  same.  What  say  you,  Master  Guillaume  Rym  ?  " 

"  Monseigneur,"  replied  Guillaume  Rym,  "  let  us  be  content 
with  having  escaped  half  of  the  comedy.  There  is  at  least 
that  much  gained." 

"  Can  these  rascals  continue  their  farce  ?  "  asked  the  bailiff. 

"  Continue,  continue ,"  said  the  cardinal,  "  it's  all  the  same 
to  me.  I'll  read  my  breviary  in  the  meantime." 

The  bailiff  advanced  to  the  edge  of  the  estrade,  and  cried, 
after  having  invoked  silence  by  a  wave  of  the  hand,  — 

''Bourgeois,  rustics,  and  citizens,  in  order  to  satisfy  those 
who  wish  the  play  to  begin  again,  and  those  who  wish  it 
to  end,  his  eminence  orders  that  it  be  continued." 

Both  parties  were  forced  to  resign  themselves.  But  the 
public  and  the  author  long  cherished  a  grudge  against  the 
cardinal. 

So  the  personages  on  the  stage  took  up  their  parts,  and 
Gringoire  hoped  that  the  rest  of  his  work,  at  least,  would  be 
listened  to.  This  hope  was  speedily  dispelled  like  his  other 
illusions ;  silence  had  indeed,  been  restored  in  the  audience, 
after  a  fashion ;  but  Gringoire  had  not  observed  that  at  the 
moment  when  the  cardinal  gave  the  order  to  continue,  the 
gallery  was  far  from  full,  and  that  after  the  Flemish  envoys 
there  had  arrived  new  personages  forming  part  of  the  cortege, 
whose  names  and  ranks,  shouted  out  in  the  midst  of  his  dia- 
logue by  the  intermittent  cry  of  the  usher,  produced  consid- 
erable ravages  in  it.  Let  the  reader  imagine  the  effect  in  the 
midst  of  a  theatrical  piece,  of  the  yelping  of  an  usher,  flinging 
in  between  two  rhymes,  and  often  in  the  middle  of  a  line, 
parentheses  like  the  following, — 

"  .Master  Jacques  Charmolue,  procurator  to  the  king  in  the 
Ecclesiastical  Courts ! " 

"  Jehan  de  Harlay,  equerry  guardian  of  the  office  of  chev- 
alier of  the  night  watch  of  the  city  of  Paris  ! 


MASTER  JACQUES   COPPENOLE.  43 

"  Messire  Galiot  de  Genoilliac,  chevalier,  seigneur  de  Brus- 
sac,  master  of  the  king's  artillery  !  " 

"  Master  Dreux-Kaguier,  surveyor  of  the  woods  and  forests 
of  the  king  our  sovereign,  in  the  land  of  France,  Champagne 
and  Brie !  " 

"  Messire  Louis  de  Graville,  chevalier,  councillor,  and 
chamberlain  of  the  king,  admiral  of  France,  keeper  of  the 
forest  of  Vinceimes  !  " 

"  Master  Denis  le  Mercier,  guardian  of  the  house  of  the 
blind  at  Paris  !  "  etc.,  etc.,  etc. 

This  was  becoming  unbearable. 

This  strange  accompaniment,  which  rendered  it  difficult  to 
follow  the  piece,  made  Gringoire  all  the  more  indignant  be- 
cause he  could  not  conceal  from  himself  the  fact  that  the 
interest  was  continually  increasing,  and  that  all  his  work  re- 
quired was  a  chance  of  being  heard. 

It  was,  in  fact,  difficult  to  imagine  a  more  ingenious  and 
more  dramatic  composition.  The  four  personages  of  the 
prologue  were  bewailing  themselves  in  their  mortal  embarrass- 
ment, when  Venus  in  person,  (vera  incessa  patuit  dea)  pre- 
sented herself  to  them,  clad  in  a  fine  robe  bearing  the  heraldic 
device  of  the  ship  of  the  city  of  Paris.  She  had  come  herself 
to  claim  the  dolphin  promised  to  the  most  beautiful.  Jupiter, 
whose  thunder  could  be  heard  rumbling  in  the  dressing-room, 
supported  her  claim,  and  Venus  was  on  the  point  of  carrying 
it  off,  —  that  is  to  say,  without  allegory,  of  marrying  monsieur 
the  dauphin,  when  a  young  child  clad  in  white  damask,  and 
holding  in  her  hand  a  daisy  (a  transparent  personification  of 
Mademoiselle  Marguerite  of  Flanders)  came  to  contest  it  with 
Venus. 

Theatrical  effect  and  change. 

After  a  dispute,  Venus,  Marguerite,  and  the  assistants 
agreed  to  submit  to  the  good  judgment  of  the  holy  Virgin. 
There  was  another  good  part,  that  of  the  king  of  Mesopota- 
mia ;  but  through  so  many  interruptions,  it  was  difficult  to 
make  out  what  end  he  served.  All  these  persons  had  ascended 
by  the  ladder  to  the  stage. 

But  all  was  over ;  none  of  these  beauties  had  been  felt  nor 


44  NOTRE-DAME. 

understood.  On  the  entrance  of  the  cardinal,  one  would  have 
said  that  an  invisible  magic  thread  had  suddenly  drawn  all 
glances  from  the  marble  table  to  the  gallery,  from  the  southern 
to  the  western  extremity  of  the  hall.  Nothing  could  disen- 
chant the  audience ;  all  eyes  remained  fixed  there,  and  the 
new-comers  and  their  accursed  names,  and  their  faces,  and  their 
costumes,  afforded  a  continual  diversion.  This  was  very  dis- 
tressing. With  the  exception  of  Gisquette  and  Lienarde,  who 
turned  round  from  time  to  time  when  Gringoire  plucked  them 
by  the  sleeve  ;  with  the  exception  of  the  big,  patient  neighbor, 
no  one  listened,  no  one  looked  at  the  poor,  deserted  morality 
full  face.  Gringoire  saw  only  profiles. 

With  what  bitterness  did  he  behold  his  whole  erection  of 
glory  and  of  poetry  crumble  away  bit  by  bit !  And  to  think 
that  these  people  had  been  upon  the  point  of  instituting  a 
revolt  against  the  bailiff  through  impatience  to  hear  his  work  ! 
now  that  they  had  it  they  did  not  care  for  it.  This  same  rep- 
resentation which  had  been  begun  amid  so  unanimous  an 
acclamation  !  Eternal  flood  and  ebb  of  popular  favor !  To 
think  that  they  had  been  on  the  point  of  hanging  the  bailiff's 
sergeant !  What  would  he  not  have  given  to  be  still  at  that 
hour  of  honey ! 

But  the  usher's  brutal  monologue  came  to  an  end ;  every 
one  had  arrived,  and  Gringoire  breathed  freely  once  more ; 
the  actors  continued  bravely.  But  Master  Coppenole,  the 
hosier,  must  needs  rise  of  a  sudden,  and  Griugoire  was  forced 
to  listen  to  him  deliver,  amid  universal  attention,  the  follow- 
ing abominable  harangue. 

"  Messieurs  the  bourgeois  and  squires  of  Paris,  I  don't 
know,  cross  of  God  !  what  we  are  doing  here.  I  certainly  do 
see  yonder  in  the  corner  on  that  stage,  some  people  who  ap- 
pear to  be  fighting.  I  don't  know  whether  that  is  what  you 
call  a  "  mystery,"  but  it  is  not  amusing  ;  they  quarrel  with  their 
tongues  and  nothing  more.  I  have  been  waiting  for  the  first 
blow  this  quarter  of  an  hour;  nothing  comes  ;  they  are  cow- 
ards who  only  scratch  each  other  with  insults.  You  ought  to 
send  for  the  fighters  of  London  or  Rotterdam ;  and,  I  can  tell 
you  !  you  would  have  had  blows  of  the  fist  that  could  be 


MASTER   JACQUES   COPPENOLE.  45 

heard  in  the  Place ;  but  these  men  excite  our  pity.  They 
ought  at  least,  to  give  vis  a  moorish  dance,  or  some  other  mum- 
mery !  That  is  not  what  was  told  me  ;  I  was  promised  a  feast 
of  fools,  with  the  election  of  a  pope.  We  have  our  pope  of 
fools  at  Ghent  also  ;  we're  not  behindhand  in  that,  cross  of 
God  !  But  this  is  the  way  we  manage  it ;  we  collect  a  crowd 
like  this  one  here,  then  each  person  in  turn  passes  his  head 
through  a  hole,  and  makes  a  grimace  at  the  rest ;  the  one  who 
makes  the  ugliest,  is  elected  pope  by  general  acclamation ; 
that's  the  way  it  is.  It  is  very  diverting.  Would  you  like  to 
make  your  pope  after  the  fashion  of  my  country  ?  At  all 
events,  it  will  be  less  wearisome  than  to  listen  to  chatterers. 
If  they  wish  to  come  and  make  their  grimaces  through  the 
hole,  they  can  join  the  game.  What  say  you,  Messieurs  les 
bourgeois  ?  You  have  here  enough  grotesque  specimens  of 
both  sexes,  to  allow  of  laughing  in  Flemish  fashion,  and  there 
are  enough  of  us  ugly  in  countenance  to  hope  for  a  fine  grin- 
ning match." 

Gringoire  would  have  liked  to  retort ;  stupefaction,  rage, 
indignation,  deprived  him  of  words.  Moreover,  the  sug- 
gestion of  the  popular  hosier  was  received  with  such  enthusi- 
asm by  these  bourgeois  who  were  flattered  at  being  called 
"  squires,"  that  all  resistance  was  useless.  There  was  nothing 
to  be  done  but  to  allow  one's  self  to  drift  with  the  torrent. 
Gringoire  hid  his  face  between  his  two  hands,  not  being  so 
fortunate  as  to  have  a  mantle  with  which  to  veil  his  head, 
like  Agamemnon  of  Timantis. 


jCHAPTEK  V. 

QUASIMODO. 

IN  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  all  was  ready  to  execute  Cop- 
penole's  idea.  Bourgeois,  scholars  and  law  clerks  all  set  to 
work.  The  little  chapel  situated  opposite  the  marble  table 
was  selected  for  the  scene  of  the  grinning  match.  A  pane 
broken  in  the  pretty  rose  window  above  the  door,  left  free  a 
circle  of  stone  through  which  it  was  agreed  that  the  competi- 
tors should  thrust  their  heads.  In  order  to  reach  it,  it  was 
only  necessary  to  mount  upon  a  couple  of  hogsheads,  which 
had  been  produced  from  I  know  not  where,  and  perched  one 
upon  the  other,  after  a  fashion.  It  was  settled  that  each  can- 
didate, man  or  woman  (for  it  was  possible  to  choose  a  female 
pope),  should,  for  the  sake  of  leaving  the  impression  of  his 
grimace  fresh  and  complete,  cover  his  face  and  remain  con- 
cealed in  the  chapel  until  the  moment  of  his  appearance.  In 
less  than  an  instant,  the  chapel  was  crowded  with  competitors, 
upon  whom  the  door  was  then  closed. 

Coppenole,  from  his  post,  ordered  all,  directed  all,  arranged 
all.  During  the  uproar,  the  cardinal,  no  less  abashed  than 
Gringoire,  had  retired  with  all  his  suite,  under  the  pretext  of 
business  and  vespers,  without  the  crowd  which  his  arrival  had 
so  deeply  stirred  being  in  the  least  moved  by  his  departure. 
Guillaume  Rym  was  the  only  one  who  noticed  his  eminence's 
discomfiture.  The  attention  of  the  populace,  like  the  sun, 
pursued  its  revolution  ;  having  set  out  from  one  end  of  the 
hall,  and  halted  for  a  space  in  the  middle,  it  had  now  reached 

46 


QUASIMODO.  47 

the  other  end.  The  marble  table,  the  brocaded  gallery  had  each 
luul  their  day ;  it  was  now  the  turn  of  the  chapel  of  Louis  XI.. 
Henceforth,  the  field  was  open  to  all  folly.  There  was  no  one 
there  now,  but  the  Flemings  and  the  rabble. 

The  grimaces  began.  The  first  face  which  appeared  at  the 
aperture,  with  eyelids  turned  up  to  the  reds,  a  mouth  open 
like  a  maw,  and  a  brow  wrinkled  like  our  hussar  boots  of  the 
Empire,  evoked  such  an  inextinguishable  peal  of  laughter 
that  Homer  would  have  taken  all  these  louts  for  gods.  Never- 
theless, the  grand  hall  was  anything  but  Olympus,  and  Grin- 
goire's  poor  Jupiter  knew  it  better  than  any  one  else.  A 
second  and  third  grimace  followed,  then  another  and  another ; 
and  the  laughter  and  transports  of  delight  went  on  increasing. 
There  was  in  this  spectacle,  a  peculiar  power  of  intoxication 
and  fascination,  of  which  it  would  be  difficult  to  convey  to  the 
reader  of  our  day  and  our  salons  any  idea. 

Let  the  reader  picture  to  himself  a  series  of  visages  pre- 
senting successively  all  geometrical  forms,  from  the  triangle 
to  the  trapezium,  from  the  cone  to  the  polyhedron ;  all  human 
expressions,  from  wrath  to  lewduess ;  all  ages,  from  the 
wrinkles  of  the  new-born  babe  to  the  wrinkles  of  the  aged 
and  dying ;  all  religious  phantasmagories,  from  Faun  to  Beel- 
zebub ;  all  animal  profiles,  from  the  maw  to  the  beak,  from 
the  jowl  to  the  muzzle.  Let  the  reader  imagine  all  these 
grotesque  figures  of  the  Pont  Neuf,  those  nightmares  petrified 
beneath  the  hand  of  Germain  Pilon,  assuming  life  and  breath, 
and  coming  in  turn  to  stare  you  in  the  face  with  burning 
eyes  ;  all  the  masks  of  the  Carnival  of  Venice  passing  in  suc- 
cession before  your  glass,  —  in  a  word,  a  human  kaleidoscope. 

The  orgy  grew  more  and  more  Flemish.  Teniers  could  have 
given  but  a  very  imperfect  idea  of  it.  Let  the  reader  picture 
to  himself  in  bacchanal  form,  Salvator  Rosa's  battle.  There 
were  no  longer  either  scholars  or  ambassadors  or  bourgeois  or 
men  or  women ;  there  was  no  longer  any  Clopin  Trouillefou, 
nor  Gilles  Lecornu,  nor  Marie  Quatrelivres,  nor  Eobin  Pousse- 
pain.  All  was  universal  license.  The  grand  hall  was  no 
longer  anything  but  a  vast  furnace  of  effrontry  and  joviality, 
where  every  mouth  was  a  cry,  every  individual  a  posture ; 


48  NOTRE-DAME. 

everything  shouted  and  howled.  The  strange  visages  which 
came,  in  turn,  to  gnash  their  teeth  in  the  rosewindow,  were 
like  so  many  brands  cast  into  the  brazier ;  and  from  the  whole 
of  this  effervescing  crowd,  there  escaped,  as  from  a  furnace, 
a  sharp,  piercing,  stinging  noise,  hissing  like  the  wings  of  a 
gnat. 

"  Ho  he !  curse  it ! " 

"  Just  look  at  that  face  ! " 

"  It's  not  good  for  anything." 

"  Guillemette  Maugerepuis,  just  look  at  that  bull's  muzzle- 
it  only  lacks  the  horns.  It  can't  be  your  husband." 

"  Another ! " 

"  Belly  of  the  pope  !  what  sort  of  a  grimace  is  that  ?  " 

"Hola  he!  that's  cheating.  One  must  show  only  one's 
face." 

"  That  damned  Perrette  Callebotte  !  she's  capable  of  that ! " 

"Good!  Good!" 

"  I'm  stifling  ! " 

"  There's  a  fellow  whose  ears  won't  go  through  ! "  Etc.,  etc. 

But  we  must  do  justice  to  our  friend  Jehan.  In  the  midst 
of  this  witches'  sabbath,  he  was  still  to  be  seen  on  the  top  of 
his  pillar,  like  the  cabin-boy  on  the  topmast.  He  floundered 
about  with  incredible  fury.  His  mouth  was  wide  open,  and 
from  it  there  escaped  a  cry  which  no  one  heard,  not  that  it 
was  covered  by  the  general  clamor,  great  as  that  was,  but 
because  it  attained,  no  doubt,  the  limit  of  perceptible  sharp 
sounds,  the  thousand  vibrations  of  Sauveur,  or  the  eight 
thousand  of  Biot. 

As  for  Gringoire,  the  first  moment  of  depression  having 
passed,  he  had  regained  his  composure.  He  had  hardened 
himself  against  adversity.  —  "  Continue  !  "  he  had  said  for  the 
third  time,  to  his  comedians,  speaking  machines ;  then  as  he 
was  marching  with  great  strides  in  front  of  the  marble  table, 
a  fancy  seized  him  to  go  and  appear  in  his  turn  at  the  aperture 
of  the  chapel,  were  it  only  for  the  pleasure  of  making  a 
grimace  at  that  ungrateful  populace.  —  "  But  no,  that  would 
not  be  worthy  of  us  ;  no,  vengeance !  let  us  combat  until  the 
end,"  he  repeated  to  himself}  "the  power  of  poetry  over 


QUASIMODO.  49 

people  is  great ;  I  will  bring  them  back.  We  shall  see  which 
will  carry  the  day,  grimaces  or  polite  literature." 

Alas  !  he  had  been  left  the  sole  spectator  of  his  piece. 

It  was  far  worse  than  it  had  been  a  little  while  before.  He 
no  longer  beheld  anything  but  backs. 

I  am  mistaken.  The  big,  patient  man,  whom  he  had  already 
consulted  in  a  critical  moment,  had  remained  with  his  face 
turned  towards  the  stage.  As  for  Gisquette  and  Lienarde, 
they  'had  deserted  him  long  ago. 

Gringoire  was  touched  to  the  heart  by  the  fidelity  of  his 
only  spectator.  He  approached  him  and  addressed  him,  shak- 
ing his  arm  slightly;  for  the  good  man  was  leaning  on  the 
balustrade  and  dozing  a  little. 

"  Monsieur,"  said  Gringoire,  "  I  thank  you ! " 

"  Monsieur,"  replied  the  big  man  with  a  yawn,  "  for  what  ?  " 

"  I  see  what  wearies  you,"  resumed  the  poet ;  "  'tis  all  this 
noise  which  prevents  your  hearing  comfortably.  But  be  at 
ease !  your  name  shall  descend  to  posterity  !  Your  name, 
if  you  please  ?  " 

"  Kenauld  Chateau,  guardian  of  the  seals  of  the  Chatelet  of 
Paris,  at  your  service." 

"Monsieur,  you  are  the  only  representive  of  the  muses 
here,'"  said  Gringoire. 

"  You  are  too  kind,  sir,"  said  the  guardian  of  the  seals  at  the 
Chatelet. 

"  You  are  the  only  one,"  resumed  Gringoire,  "  who  has  lis- 
tened to  the  piece  decorously.  What  do  you  think  of  it  ?  " 

"  He  !  he !  "  replied  the  fat  magistrate,  half  aroused,  "  it's 
tolerably  jolly,  that's  a  fact." 

Gringoire  was  forced  to  content  himself  with  this  eulogy ; 
for  a  thunder  of  applause,  mingled  with  a  prodigious  acclama- 
tion, cut  their  conversation  short.  The  Pope  of  the  Fools  had 
been  elected. 

"  Xoel !  Noel !  Noel ! "    *  shouted  the  people  on  all  sides. 

That  was,  in  fact,  a  marvellous  grimace  which  was  beaming 
at  that  moment  through  the  aperture  in  the  rose  window. 
After  all  the  pentagonal,  hexagonal,  and  whimsical  faces,  which 
*  The  ancient  French  hurrah. 


50  NOTRE-DAME. 

had  succeeded  each  other  at  that  hole  without  realizing  the 
ideal  of  the  grotesque  which  their  imaginations,  excited  by 
the  orgy,  had  constructed,  nothing  less  was  needed  to  win  their 
suffrages  than  the  sublime  grimace  whch  had  just  dazzled  the 
assembly.  Master  Coppenole  himself  applauded,  and  Clopin 
Trouillefou,  who  had  been  among  the  competitors  (and  God 
knows  what  intensity  of  ugliness  his  visage  could  attain), 
confessed  himself  conquered.  We  will  do  the  same.  We 
shall  not  try  to  give  the  reader  an  idea  of  that  tetrahedral 
nose,  that  horseshoe  mouth ;  that  little  left  eye  obstructed 
with  a  red,  bushy,  bristling  eyebrow,  while  the  right  eye  dis- 
appeared entirely  beneath  an  enormous  wart ;  of  those  teeth 
in  disarray,  broken  here  and  there,  like  the  embattled  parapet 
of  a  fortress ;  of  that  callous  lip,  upon  which  one  of  these 
teeth  encroached,  like  the  tusk  of  an  elephant ;  of  that  forked 
chin ;  and  above  all,  of  the  expression  spread  over  the  whole  ; 
of  that  mixture  of  malice,  amazement,  and  sadness.  Let  the 
reader  dream  of  this  whole,  if  he  can. 

The  acclamation  was  unanimous  ; .  people  rushed  towards 
the  chapel.  They  made  the  lucky  Pope  of  the  Fools  come 
forth  in  triumph.  But  it  was  then  that  surprise  and  admira- 
tion attained  their  highest  pitch ;  the  grimace  was  his  face. 

Or  rather,  his  whole  person  was  a  grimace.  A  huge  head. 
bristling  with  red  hair ;  between  his  shoulders  an  enormous 
hump,  a  counterpart  perceptible  in  front ;  a  system  of  thighs 
and  legs  so  strangely  astray  that  they  could  touch  each  other 
only  at  the  knees,  and,  viewed  from  the  front,  resembled  the 
crescents  of  two  scythes  joined  by  the  handles ;  large  feet,  mon- 
strous hands ;  and,  with  all  this  deformity,  an  indescribable 
and  redoubtable  air  of  vigor,  agility,  and  courage,  —  strange 
exception  to  the  eternal  rule  which  wills  that  force  as  well  as 
beauty  shall  be  the  result  of  harmony.  Such  was  the  pope 
whom  the  fools  had  just  chosen  for  themselves. 

One  would  have  pronounced  him  a  giant  who  had  been 
broken  and  badly  put  together  again. 

When  this  species  of  cyclops  appeared  on  the  threshold  of 
the  chapel,  motionless,  squat,  and  almost  as  broad  as  he  was 
tall ;  squared  on  the  base,  as  a  great  man  says  ;  with  his  doublet 


QUASIMODO.  51 

half  red,  half  violet,  sown  with  silver  bells,  and,  above  all, 
in  the  perfection  of  his  ugliness,  the  populace  recognized  him 
on  the  instant,  and  shouted  with  one  voice,  — 

"  "Tis  Quasimodo,  the  bellringer  !  'tis  Quasimodo,  the  hunch- 
back of  Xotre  Dame  !  Quasimodo,  the  one-eyed !  Quasimodo, 
the  bandy-legged !  Noel !  Noel ! " 

It  will  be  seen  that  the  poor  fellow  had  a  choice  of  surnames. 

"  Let  the  women  with  child  beware  ! "  shouted  the  scholars. 

"  Or  those  who  wish  to  be,"  resumed  Joannes. 

The  women  did,  in  fact,  hide  their  faces. 

'"  Oh  !  the  horrible  monkey  ! "  said  one  of  them. 

"  As  wicked  as  he  is  ugly,"  retorted  another. 

"  He's  the  devil,"  added  a  third. 

"  I  have  the  misfortune  to  live  near  Notre  Dame ;  I  hear 
him  prowling  round  the  eaves  by  night." 

"  With  the  cats." 

"  He's  always  on  our  roofs." 

"  He  throws  spells  down  our  chimneys." 

"  The  other  evening,  he  came  and  made  a  grimace  at  me 
through  my  attic  window.  I  thought  that  it  was  a  man. 
Such  a  fright  as  I  had ! " 

"  I'm  sure  that  he  goes  to  the  Avitches'  sabbath.  Once  he 
left  a  broom  on  my  leads." 

"  Oh !  what  a  displeasing  hunchback's  face  ! " 

"  Oh !  what  an  ill-favored  soul ! " 

"Whew!" 

The  men,  on  the  contrary,  were  delighted  and  applauded. 

Quasimodo,  the  object  of  the  tumult,  still  stood  on  the 
threshold  of  the  chapel,  sombre  and  grave,  and  allowed  them 
to  admire  him. 

One  scholar  (Robin  Poussepain,  I  think),  came  and  laughed 
in  his  face,  and  too  close.  Quasimodo  contented  himself  with 
taking  him  by  the  girdle,  and  hurling  him  ten  paces  off  amid 
the  crowd ;  all  without  uttering  a  word. 

Master  Coppenole,  in  amazement,  approached  him. 

"  Cross  of  God !  Holy  Father !  you  possess  the  handsom- 
est ugliness  that  I  have  ever  beheld  in  my  life.  You  would 
deserve  to  be  pope  at  Rome,  as  well  as  at  Paris." 


52  NOTRE-DAME. 

So  saying,  he  placed  his  hand  gayly  on  his  shoulder.  Qua- 
simodo did  not  stir.  Coppenole  went  on,  — 

"  You  are  a  rogue  with  whom  I  have  a  fancy  for  carousing, 
were  it  to  cost  me  a  new  dozen  of  twelve  livres  of  Tours. 
How  does  it  strike  you  ?  " 

Quasimodo  made  no  reply. 

"  Cross  of  God  ! "  said  the  hosier,  "  are  you  deaf  ?  " 

He  was,  in  truth,  deaf. 

Nevertheless,  he  began  to  grow  impatient  with  Coppenole's 
behavior,  and  suddenly  turned  towards  him  with  so  formid- 
able a  gnashing  of  teeth,  that  the  Flemish  giant  recoiled,  like 
a  bull-dog  before  a  cat. 

Then  there  was  created  around  that  strange  personage,  a 
circle  of  terror  and  respect,  whose  radius  was  at  least  fifteen 
geometrical  feet.  An  old  woman  explained  to  Coppenole  that 
Quasimodo  was  deaf. 

"  Deaf ! "  said  the  hosier,  with  his  great  Flemish  laugh. 
"  Cross  of  God !  He's  a  perfect  pope  ! " 

"  He !  I  recognize  him,"  exclaimed  Jehan,  who  had,  at 
last,  descended  from  his  capital,  in  order  to  see  Quasimodo  at 
closer  quarters,  "  he's  the  bellringer  of  my  brother,  the  arch- 
deacon. Good-day,  Quasimodo ! " 

"  What  a  devil  of  a  man  !  "  said  Robin  Poussepain  still  all 
bruised  with  his  fall.  ''He  shows  himself;  he's  a  hunchback. 
He  walks ;  he's  bandy-legged.  He  looks  at  you ;  he's  one- 
eyed.  You  speak  to  him;  he's  deaf.  And  what  does  this 
Polyphemus  do  with  his  tongue  ?  " 

"  He  speaks  when  he  chooses,"  said  the  old  woman ;  "  he  be- 
came deaf  through  ringing  the  bells.  He  is  not  dumb." 

"That  he  lacks,"  remarks  Jehan. 

"  And  he  has  one  eye  too  many,"  added  Robin  Poussepain. 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Jehan  wisely.  "  A  one-eyed  man  is  far 
less  complete  than  a  blind  man.  He  knows  what  he  lacks." 

In  the  meantime,  all  the  beggars,  all  the  lackeys,  all  the  cut- 
purses,  joined  with  the  scholars,  had  gone  in  procession  to 
seek,  in  the  cupboard  of  the  law  clerks'  company,  the  cardboard 
tiara,  and  the  derisive  robe  of  the  Pope  of  the  Fools.  Qua- 
simodo allowed  them  to  array  him  in  them  without  wincing, 


QUASIMODO. 


53 


and  with  a  sort  of  proud  docility.  Then  they  made  him  seat 
himself  on  a  motley  litter.  Twelve  officers  of  the  fraternity 
of  fools  raised  him  on  their  shoulders ;  and  a  sort  of  bitter 
and  disdainful  joy  lighted  up  the  morose  face  of  the  Cyclops, 
when  he  beheld  beneath  his  deformed  feet  all  those  heads  of 
handsome,  straight,  well-made  men.  Then  the  ragged  and 
howling  procession  set  out  on  its  march,  according  to  custom, 
around  the  inner  galleries  of  the  Courts,  before  making  the 
circuit  of  the  streets  and  squares. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

ESMEKALDA. 

WE  are  delighted  to  be  able  to  inform  the  reader,  that  dur- 
ing the  whole  of  this  scene,  Gringoire  and  his  piece  had  stood 
firm.  His  actors,  spurred  on  by  him,  had  not  ceased  to  spout 
his  comedy,  and  he  had  not  ceased  to  listen  to  it.  He  had 
made  up  his  mind  about  the  tumult,  and  was  determined  to 
proceed  to  the  end,  not  giving  up  the  hope  of  a  return  of 
attention  on  the  part  of  the  public.  This  gleam  of  hope  ac 
quired  fresh  life,  when  he  saw  Quasimodo,  Coppenole.  and  thQ. 
deafening  escort  of  the  pope  of  the  procession  of  fools  quit 
the  hall  amid  great  uproar.  The  throng  rushed  eagerly  after 
them.  "Good,"  he  said  to  himself,  "there go  all  the  mischief- 
makers."  Unfortunately,  all  the  mischief-makers  constituted 
the  entire  audience.  In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  the  graivl 
hall  was  empty. 

To  tell  the  truth,  a  few  spectators  still  remained,  some  scat- 
tered, others  in  groups  around  the  pillars,  women,  old  men,  or 
children,  who  had  had  enough  of  the  uproar  and  tumult.  Some 
scholars  were  still  perched  astride  of  the  window-sills,  en- 
gaged in  gazing  into  the  Place. 

"Well,"  thought  Gringoire,  "here  are  still  as  many  as  are 
required  to  hear  the  end  of  my  mystery.  They  are  few  in 
number,  but  it  is  a  choice  audience,  a  lettered  audience." 

An  instant  later,  a  symphony  which  had  been  intended  to 
produce  the  greatest  effect  on  the  arrival  of  the  Virgin,  was 

54 


ESMERALDA.  55 

lacking.  Gringoire  perceived  that  liis  music  had  been  carried 
off  by  the  procession  of  the  Pope  of  the  Fools.  "  Skip  it/'  said 
he,  stoically. 

He  approached  a  group  of  bourgeois,  who  seemed  to  him  to 
be  discussing  his  piece.  This  is  the  fragment  of  conversation 
which  he  caught,  — 

"  You  know,  Master  Cheneteau,  the  Hotel  de  Navarre,  which 
belonged  to  Monsieur  de  Nemours  ?  "  . 

"Yes,  opposite  the  Chapelle  de  Braque." 

"  Well,  the  treasury  has  just  let  it  to  Guillaume  Alixandre, 
historian,  for  six  livres,  eight  sols,  parisian,  a  year." 

"  How  rents  are  going  up  ! " 

"  Come,"  said  Gringoire  to  himself,  with  a  sigh,  "  the  others 
are  listening." 

"  Comrades,"  suddenly  shouted  one  of  the  young  scamps 
from  the  window,  "  La  Esmeralda !  La  Esmeralda  in  the 
Place!" 

This  word  produced  a  magical  effect.  Every  one  who  was 
left  in  the  hall  flew  to  the  windows,  climbing  the  walls  in 
order  to  see,  and  repeating,  "  La  Esmeralda !  La  Esmeralda  ?  " 
At  the  same  time,  a  great  sound  of  applause  was  heard  from 
without. 

"What's  the  meaning  of  this,  of  the  Esmeralda?"  said 
Gringoire,  wringing  his  hands  in  despair.  "  Ah,  good  heavens  ! 
it  seems  to  be  the  turn  of  the  windows  now." 

He  returned  towards  the  marble  table,  and  saw  that  the 
representation  had  been  interrupted.  It  was  precisely  at 
the  instant  when  Jupiter  should  have  appeared  with  his 
thunder.  But  Jupiter  was  standing  motionless  at  the  foot  of 
the  stage. 

"  Michel  Giborne  ! "  cried  the  irritated  poet,  "  what  are  you 
doing  there  ?  Is  that  your  part  ?  Come  up ! " 

"Alas!"  said  Jupiter,  "a  scholar  has  just  seized  the 
ladder." 

Gringoire  looked.  It  was  but  too  true.  All  communication 
between  his  plot  and  its  solution  was  intercepted. 

"  The  rascal,"  he  murmured.  "  And  why  did  he  take  that 
ladder  ?  " 


56  NOTRE-DAME. 

"In  order  to  go  and  see  the  Esmeralda,"  replied  Jupiter 
piteously.  "  He  said,  '  Come,  here's  a  ladder  that's  ot  no 
use  ! '  and  he  took  it." 

This  was  the  last  blow.  Gringoire  received  it  with  resig- 
nation. 

"  May  the  devil  fly  away  with  you  ! "  he  said  to  the  come- 
dians, "  and  if  I  get  my  pay,  you  shall  receive  yours." 

Then  he  beat  a  retreat,  with  drooping  head,  but  the  last 
in  the  field,  like  a  general  who  has  fought  well. 

And  as  he  descended  the  winding  stairs  of  the  courts :  "  A 
fine  rabble  of  asses  and  dolts  these  Parisians  ! "  he  muttered 
between  his  teeth ;  "  they  come  to  hear  a  mystery  and  don't 
listen  to  it  at  all !  They  are  engrossed  by  every  one,  by 
Clopin  Trouillefou,  by  the  cardinal,  by  Coppenole,  by  Quasi- 
modo, by  the  devil !  but  by  Madame  the  Virgin  Mary,  not  at 
all.  If  I  had  known,  I'd  have  given  you  Virgin  Mary,  you 
ninnies !  And  I !  to  come  to  see  faces  and  behold  only  backs  ! 
to  be  a  poet,  and  to  reap  the  success  of  an  apothecary  !  It  is 
true  that  Homerus  begged  through  the  Greek  towns,  and  that 
Naso  died  in  exile  among  the  Muscovites.  But  may  the  devil 
flay  me  if  I  understand  what  they  me'an  with  their  Esmeralda ! 
What  is  that  word,  in  the  first  place  ?  —  'tis  Egyptian ! " 


BOOK   SECOND. 


CHAPTER  I. 

FROM    CHARYBDIS    TO    SCYLLA. 

NIGHT  comes  on  early  in  January.  The  streets  were  already 
dark  when  Gringoire  issued  forth  from  the  Courts.  This 
gloom  pleased  him ;  he  was  in  haste  to  reach  some  obscure 
and  deserted  alley,  in  order  there  to  meditate  at  his  ease,  and 
in  order  that  the  philosopher  might  place  the  first  dressing 
upon  the  wound  of  the  poet.  Philosophy,  moreover,  was  his 
sole  refuge,  for  he  did  not  know  where  he  was  to  lodge  for  the 
night.  After  the  brilliant  failure  of  his  first  theatrical  ven- 
ture, he  dared  not  return  to  the  lodging  which  he  occupied  in 
the  Rue  Grenier-sur-P  Eau,  opposite  to  the  Port-au-Foin,  hav- 
ing depended  upon  receiving  from  monsieur  the  provost  for 
his  epithalamium,  the  wherewithal  to  pay  Master  Guillaume 
Doulx-Sire,  farmer  of  the  taxes  on  cloven-footed  animals  in 
Paris,  the  rent  which  he  owed  him.  that  is  to  say,  twelve  sols 
parisian ;  twelve  times  the  value  of  all  that  he  possessed  in 
the  world,  including  his  trunk-hose,  his  shirt,  and  his  cap. 
After  reflecting  a  moment,  temporarily  sheltered  beneath  the 
little  wicket  of  the  prison  of  the  treasurer  of  the  Sainte- 
Chappelle,  as  to  the  shelter  which  he  Avould  select  for  the 
night,  having  all  the  pavements  of  Paris  to  choose  from,  he 
remembered  to  have  noticed  the  week  previously  in  the  Rue 

57 


58  NOTRE-J)AME. 

de  la  Savaterie,  at  tlie  door  of  a  councillor  of  the  parliament, 
a  stepping  stoue  for  mounting  a  mule,  and  to  have  said  to 
himself  that  that  stone  would  furnish,  on  occasion,  a  very 
excellent  pillo\v  for  a  mendicant  or  a  poet.  He  thanked 
Providence  for  having  sent  this  happy  idea  to  him ;  but,  as  he 
was  preparing  to  cross  the  Place,  in  order  to  reach  the  tortu- 
ous labyrinth  of  the  city,  Avhere  meander  all  those  old  sister 
streets,  the  Hues  de  la  Barillerie,  de  la  Vielle-Draperie,  de  la 
Savaterie,  de  la  Juiverie,  etc.,  still  extant  to-day,  with  their 
nine-story  houses,  he  saw  the  procession  of  the  Pope  of  the 
Fools,  which  was  also  emerging  from  the  court  house,  and 
rushing  across  the  courtyard,  with  great  cries,  a  great  flashing 
of  torches,  and  the  music  which  belonged  to  him,  Gringoire. 
This  sight  revived  the  pain  of  his  self-love ;  he  fled.  In  the 
bitterness  of  his  dramatic  misadventure,  everything  which 
reminded  him  of  the  festival  of  that  day  irritated  his  wound 
and  made  it  bleed. 

He  was  on  the  point  of  turning  to  the  Pont  Saint-Michel ; 
children  were  running  about  here  and  there  with  fire  lances 
and  rockets. 

"  Pest  on  firework  candles ! "  said  Gringoire ;  and  he  fell 
back  on  the  Port  au  Change.  To  the  house  at  the  head  of  the 
bridge  there  had  been  affixed  three  small  banners,  represent- 
ing the  king,  the  dauphin,  and  Marguerite  of  Flanders,  and 
six  little  pennons  on  which  were  portrayed  the  Duke  of  Aus- 
tria, the  Cardinal  de  Bourbon,  M.  de  Beaujeu,  and  Madame 
Jeanne  de  France,  and  Monsieur  the  Bastard  of  Bourbon,  and 
I  know  not  whom  else ;  all  being  illuminated  with  torches. 
The  rabble  were  admiring. 

"  Happy  painter,  Jehan  Fourbault !  "  said  Gringoire  with  a 
deep  sigh ;  and  he  turned  his  back  upon  the  bannerets  and 
pennons.  A  street  opened  before  him ;  he  thought  it  so  dark 
and  deserted  that  he  hoped  to  there  escape  from  all  the  rumors 
as  well  as  from  all  the  gleams  of  the  festival.  At  the  end  of 
a  few  moments  his  foot  came  in  contact  with  an  obstacle ;  he 
stumbled  and  fell.  It  was  the  May  truss,  which  the  clerks  of 
the  clerks'  law  court  had  deposited  that  morning  at  the  door 
of  a  president  of  the  parliament,  in  honor  of  the  solemnity  of 


FROM  CHAUYBUIS   TO   SCYLLA.  59 

Llie  day.  Gringoire  bore  this  new  disaster  heroically ;  he 
picked  himself  up,  and  reached  the  water's  edge.  After  leav- 
ing behind  him  the  civic  Toumelle  *  and  the  criminal  tower, 
and  skirted  the  great  walls  of  the  king's  garden,  on  that 
unpaved  strand  where  the  mud  reached  to  his  ankles,  he 
reached  the  western  point  of  the  city,  and  considered  for  some 
time  the  islet  of  the  Passeur-aux-Vaches,  which  has  disap- 
peared beneath  the  bronze  horse  of  the  Pont  Neuf.  The  islet 
appeared  to  him  in  the  shadow  like  a  black  mass,  beyond  the 
narrow  strip  of  whitish  water  which  separated  him  from  it. 
One  could  divine  by  the  ray  of  a  tiny  light  the  sort  of  hut  in 
the  form  of  a  beehive  where  the  ferryman  of  cows  took  refuge 
at  night. 

"  Happy  ferryman  !  "  thought  Gringoire  ;  "  you  do  not 
dream  of  glory,  and  yon  do  not  make  marriage  songs  !  What 
matters  it  to  you,  if  kings  and  Duchesses  of  Burgundy  marry  ? 
You  know  no  other  daisies  (marguerites)  than  those  which 
your  April  greensward  gives  your  cows  to  browse  upon ;  while 
I,  a  poet,  am  hooted,  and  shiver,  and  owe  twelve  sous,  and 
the  soles  of  my  shoes  are  so  transparent,  that  they  might 
serve  as  glasses  for  your  lantern!  Thanks,  ferryman,  your 
cabin  rests  my  eyes,  and  makes  me  forget  Paris ! " 

He  was  roused  from  his  almost  lyric  ecstacy,  by  a  big 
double  Saint-Jean  cracker,  which  suddenly  went  off  from  the 
happy  cabin.  It  was  the  cow  ferryman,  who  was  taking  his 
part  in  the  rejoicings  of  the  day,  and  letting  off  fireworks. 

This  cracker  made  Gringoire's  skin  bristle  up  all  over. 

"Accursed  festival!"  he  exclaimed,  "wilt  thou  pursue  me 
everywhere  ?  Oh  !  good  God !  even  to  the  ferryman's  ! " 

Then  he  looked  at  the  Seine  at  his  feet,  and  a  horrible 
temptation  took  possession  of  him : 

"  Oh ! "  said  he,  "  I  would  gladly  drown  myself,  were  the 
water  not  so  cold ! " 

Then  a  desperate  resolution  occurred  to  him.  It  was,  since 
he  could  not  escape  from  the  Pope  of  the  Fools,  from  Jehan 
Fourbault's  bannerets,  from  May  trusses,  from  squibs  and 
crackers,  to  go  to  the  Place  de  Greve. 

*  A  chamber  of  the  ancient  parliament  of  Paris. 


GO 


NOTRE-DAME. 


"  At  least,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  I  shall  there  have  a  fire- 
brand of  joy  wherewith  to  warm  myself,  and  I  can  sup  on 
some  crumbs  of  the  three  great  armorial  bearings  of  royal 
sugar  which  have  been  erected  on  the  public  refreshment-stall 
of  the  city. 


CHAPTER  IL 

THE    PLACE    DE    GREVE. 

THERE  remains  to-day  but  a  very  imperceptible  vestige  of 
the  Place  de  Greve,  such  as  it  existed  then ;  it  consists  in  the 
charming  little  turret,  which  occupies  the  angle  north  of  the 
Place,  and  which,  already  enshrouded  in  the  ignoble  plaster 
which  fills  with  paste  the  delicate  lines  of  its  sculpture,  would 
soon  have  disappeared,  perhaps  submerged  by  that  flood  of 
new  houses  which  so  rapidly  devours  all  the  ancient  facades 
of  Paris. 

The  persons  who,  like  ourselves,  never  cross  the  Place  de 
Greve  without  casting  a  glance  of  pity  and  sympathy  on  that 
poor  turret  strangled  between  two  hovels  of  the  time  of  Louis 
XV.,  can  easily  reconstruct  in  their  minds  the  aggregate  of 
edifices  to  which  it  belonged,  and  find  again  entire  in  it 
the  ancient  Gothic  place  of  the  fifteenth  century. 

It  was  then,  as  it  is  to-day,  an  irregular  trapezoid,  bordered 
on  one  side  by  the  quay,  and  on  the  other  three  by  a  series  of 
lofty,  narrow,  and  gloomy  houses.  By  day,  one  could  admire 
the  variety  of  its  edifices,  all  sculptured  in  stone  or  wood,  and 
already  presenting  complete  specimens  of  the  different  do- 
mestic architectures  of  the  Middle  Ages,  running  back  from 
the  fifteenth  to  the  eleventh  century,  from  the  casement 
which  had  begun  to  dethrone  the  arch,  to  the  Eoman  semi- 
circle, which  had  been  supplanted  by  the  ogive,  and  which 
still  occupies,  below  it.  the  first  story  of  that  ancient  house  de 
la  Tour  Eoland,  at  the  corner-  of  the  Place  upon  the  Seine,  on 

61 


62  NOTRE-DAME. 

the  side  of  the  street  with  the  Tannerie.  At  night,  one  could 
distinguish  nothing  of  all  that  mass  of  buildings,  except  the 
black  indentation  of  the  roofs,  unrolling  their  chain  of  acute 
angles  round  the  place;  for  one  of  the  radical  differences 
between  the  cities  of  that  time,  and  the  cities  of  the  present 
day,  lay  in  the  facades  which  looked  upon  the  places  and 
streets,  and  which  were  then  gables.  For  the  last  two  centu- 
ries the  houses  have  been  turned  round. 

In  the  centre  of  the  eastern  side  of  the  Place,  rose  a  heavy 
and  hybrid  construction,  formed  of  three  buildings  placed  in 
juxtaposition.  It  was  called  by  three  names  which  explain 
its  history,  its  destination,  and  its  architecture :  "  The  House 
of  the  Dauphin,"  because  Charles  V.,  when  Dauphin,  had 
inhabited  it;  "The  Marchandise,"  because  it  had  served  as 
town  hall;  and  "The  Pillared  House"  (domus  ad  ^n'Zo/v'a,)  be- 
cause of  a  series  of  large  pillars  which  sustained  the  three 
stories.  The  city  found  there  all  that  is  required  for  a  city 
like  Paris;  a  chapel  in  which  to  pray  to  God;  a  plaidoyer,  or 
pleading  room,  in  which  to  hold  hearings,  and  to  repel,  at 
need,  the  King's  people;  and  under  the  roof,  an  arseiwc  full 
of  artillery.  For  the  bourgeois  of  Paris  were  aware  that  it  is 
not  sufficient  to  pray  in  eveiy  conjuncture,  and  to  plead  for  the 
franchises  of  the  city,  and  they  had  always  in  reserve,  in  the 
garret  of  the  town  hall,  a  few  good  rusty  arquebuses.  The 
Greve  had  then  that  sinister  aspect  which  it  preserves  to-day 
from  the  execrable  ideas  which  it  awakens,  and  from  the 
sombre  town  hall  of  Dominique  Bocador,  which  has  replaced 
the  Pillared  House.  It  must  be  admitted  that  a  permanent 
gibbet  and  a  pillory,  "a  justice  and  a  ladder,"  as  they  were 
called  in  that  day,  erected  side  by  side  in  the  centre  of  the 
pavement,  contributed  not  a  little  to  cause  eyes  to  be  turned 
away  from  that  fatal  place,  where  so  many  beings  full  of  life 
and  health  have  agonized ;  where,  fifty  years  later,  that  fever 
of  Saint  Vallier  was  destined  to  have  its  birth,  that  terror  of 
the  scaffold,  the  most .  monstrous  of  all  maladies  because  it 
comes  not  from  God,  but  from  man. 

It  is  a  consoling  idea  (let  us  remark  in  passing),  to  think 
that  the  death  penalty,  which  three  hundred  years  ago  still 


THE  PLACE  DE  GREVE.  63 

encumbered  with  its  iron  wheels,  its  stone  gibbets,  and  all  its 
paraphernalia  of  torture,  permanent  and  riveted  to  the  pave- 
ment, the  Greve,  the  Halles,  the  Place  Dauphine,  the  Cross 
du  Trahoir,  the  ^larche  aux  Pourceaux,  that  hideous  Mont- 
faucon.  the  barrier  des  Sergents,  the  Place  aux  Chats,  the 
Porte  Saint-Denis,  Champeaux,  the  Porte  Baudets,  the  Porte 
.Saint  Jacques,  without  reckoning  the  innumerable  ladders  of 
the  provosts,  the  bishop  of  the  chapters,  of  the  abbots,  of  the 
priors,  who  had  the  decree  of  life  and  death,  —  without  reckon- 
ing the  judicial  drownings  in  the  river  Seine ;  it  is  consoling 
to-day,  after  having  lost  successively  all  the  pieces  of  its 
armor,  its  luxury  of  torment,  its  penalty  of  imagination  and 
fancy,  its  torture  for  which  it  reconstructed  every  five  years 
a  leather  bed  at  the  Grand  Chatelet,  that  ancient  suzerain  of 
feudal  society  almost  expunged  from  our  laws  and  our  cities, 
hunted  from  code  to  code,  chased  from  place  to  place,  has  no 
longer;  in  our  immense  Paris,  any  more  than  a  dishonored 
corner  of  the  Greve, — than  a  miserable  guillotine,  furtive, 
uneasy,  shameful,  which  seems  always  afraid  of  being  caught 
in  the  act,  so  quickly  does  it  disappear  after  having  dealt  its 
blow. 


CHAPTER  III. 

KISSES    FOR    BLOWS. 

WHEN  Pierre  Gringoire  arrived  on  the  Place  de  Greve,  he 
was  paralyzed.  He  had  directed  his  course  across  the  Pont 
aux  Meuniers,  in  order  to  avoid  the  rabble  on  the  Pont  au 
Change,  and  the  pennons  of  Jehan  Fourbault ;  but  the  wheels 
of  all  the  bishop's  mills  had  splashed  him  as  he  passed,  and 
his  doublet  was  drenched ;  it  seemed  to  him  besides,  that  the 
failure  of  his  piece  had  rendered  him  still  more  sensible  to 
cold  than  usual.  Hence  he  made  haste  to  draw  near  the  bon- 
fire, which  was  burning  magnificently  in  the  middle  of  the 
Place.  But  a  considerable  crowd  formed  a  circle  around  it. 

"Accursed  Parisians!"  he  said  to  himself  (for  Gringoire, 
like  a  true  dramatic  poet,  was  subject  to  monologues)  "there 
they  are  obstructing  my  fire!  Nevertheless,  I  am  greatly  in 
need  of  a  chimney  corner;  my  shoes  drink  in  the  water,  and 
all  those  cursed  mills  wept  upon  me  !  That  devil  of  a  Bishop 
of  Paris,  with  his  mills !  I'd  just  like  to  know  what  use  a 
bishop  can  make  of  a  mill!  Does  he  expect  to  become  a 
miller  instead  of  a  bishop  ?  If  only  my  malediction  is  needed 
for  that,  I  bestow  it  upon  him.  and  his  cathedral,  and  his 
mills!  Just  see  if  those  boobies  will  put  themselves  out! 
Move  aside !  I'd  like  to  know  what  they  are  doing  there ! 
They  are  warning  themselves,  much  pleasure  may  it  give 
them!  They  are  watching  a  hundred  fagots  burn;  a  fine 
spectacle ! " 


KISSES  FOB  BLOWS.  65 

On  looking  more  closely,  he  perceived  that  the  circle  was 
much  larger  than  was  required  simply  for  the  purpose  of 
getting  warm  at  the  king's  fire,  and  that  this  concourse  of 
people  had  not  been  attracted  solely  by  the  beauty  of  the 
hundred  fagots  which  were  burning. 

In  a  vast  space  left  free  between  the  crowd  and  the  fire,  a 
young  girl  was  dancing. 

Whether  this  young  girl  was  a  human  being,  a  fairy,  or  an 
angel,  is  what  Gringoire,  sceptical  philosopher  and  ironical 
poet  that  he  was,  could  not  decide  at  the  first  moment,  so 
fascinated  was  he  by  this  dazzling  vision. 

She  was  not  tall,  though  she  seemed  so,  so  boldly  did  her 
slender  form  dart  about.  She  was  swarthy  of  complexion, 
but  one  divined  that,  by  day,  her  skin  must  possess  that 
beautiful  golden  tone  of  the  Andalusians  and  the  Roman 
women.  Her  little  foot,  too,  was  Andalusian,  for  it  was  both 
pinched  and  at  ease  in  its  graceful  shoe.  She  danced,  she 
turned,  she  whirled  rapidly  about  on  an  old  Persian  rug, 
spread  negligently  under  her  feet;  and  each  time  that  her 
radiant  face  passed  before  you,  as  she  whirled,  her  great  black 
eyes  darted  a  flash  of  lightning  at  you. 

All  around  her,  all  glances  were  riveted,  all  mouths  open ; 
and,  in  fact,  when  she  danced  thus,  to  the  humming  of  the 
Basque  tambourine,  which  her  two  pure,  rounded  arms  raised 
above  her  head,  slender,  frail  and  vivacious  as  a  wasp,  with 
her  corsage  of  gold  without  a  fold,  her  variegated  gown  puff- 
ing out,  her  bare  shoulders,  her  delicate  limbs,  which  her 
petticoat  revealed  at  times,  her  black  hair,  her  eyes  of  flame, 
she  was  a  supernatural  creature. 

"In  truth,"  said  Gringoire  to  himself,  "she  is  a  sala- 
mander, she  is  a  nymph,  she  is  a  goddess,  she  is  a  bac- 
chante of  the  Menelean  Mount ! " 

At  that  moment,  one  of  the  salamander's  braids  of  hair 
became  unfastened,  and  a  piece  of  yellow  copper  which  was 
attached  to  it,  rolled  to  the  ground. 

"  He,  no  ! "  said  he,  "  she  is  a  gypsy ! " 

All  illusions  had  disappeared. 

She  began  her  dance  once  more ;  she  took  from  the  ground 


gg  NOTRE-DAME. 

two  swords,  whose  points  she  rested  against  her  brow,  and 
which  she  made  to  turn  in  one  direction,  while  she  turned  in 
the  other ;  it  was  a  purely  gypsy  effect.  But,  disenchanted 
though  Gringoire  was,  the  whole  effect  of  this  picture  was  not 
without  its  charm  and  its  magic;  the  bontire  illuminated, 
with  a  red  flaring  light,  which  trembled,  all  alive,  over  the 
circle  of  faces  in  the  crowd,  on  the  brow  of  the  young  girl, 
and  at  the  background  of  the  Place  cast  a  pallid  reflection, 
on  one  side  upon  the  ancient,  black,  and  wrinkled  facade  of 
the  House  of  Pillars,  on  the  other,  upon  the  old  stone 
gibbet. 

Among  the  thousands  of  visages  which  that  light  tinged 
with  scarlet,  there  was  one  which  seemed,  even  more  than  all 
the  others,  absorbed  in  contemplation  of  the  dancer.  It  was 
the  face  of  a  man,  austere,  calm,  and  sombre.  This  man. 
whose  costume  was  concealed  by  the  crowd  which  surrounded 
him,  did  not  appear  to  be  more  than  five  and  thirty  years  of 
age ;  nevertheless,  he  was  bald ;  he  had  merely  a  few  tufts  of 
thin,  gray  hair  on  his  temples ;  his  broad,  high  forehead  had 
begun  to  be  furrowed  with  wrinkles,  but  his  deep-set  eyes 
sparkled  with  extraordinary  youthfulness,  an  ardent  life,  a 
profound  passion.  He  kept  them  fixed  incessantly  on  the 
gypsy,  and,  while  the  giddy  young  girl  of  sixteen  danced  and 
whirled,  for  the  pleasure  of  all,  his  revery  seemed  to  become 
more  and  more  sombre.  From  time  to  time,  a  smile  and  a 
sigh  met  upon  his  lips,  but  the  smile  was  more  melancholy 
than  the  sigh. 

The  young  girl,  stopped  at  length,  breathless,  and  the  peo- 
ple applauded  her  lovingly. 

"  Djali ! "  said  the  gypsy. 

Then  Gringoire  saw  come  up  to  her,  a  pretty  little  white 
goat,  alert,  wide-awake,  glossy,  with  gilded  horns,  gilded 
hoofs,  and  gilded  collar,  which  he  had  not  hitherto  per- 
ceived, and  which  had  remained  lying  curled  up  on  one  corner 
of  the  carpet  watching  his  mistress  dance. 

"  Djali ! "  said  the  dancer,  "  it  is  your  turn." 

And,  seating  herself,  she  gracefully  presented  her  tam- 
bourine to  the  goat. 


KISSES  FOE   BLOWS.  67 

"Djali,"  she  continued,  "what  month  is  this?" 

The  goat  lifted  its  fore  foot,  and  struck  one  blow  upon 
the  tambourine.  It  was  the  first  month-  in  the  year,  in 
fact. 

"Djali,"  pursued  the  young  girl,  turning  her  tambourine 
round,  "  what  day  of  the  month  is  this  ?  " 

Djali  raised  his  little  gilt  hoof,  and  struck  six  blows  on  the 
tambourine. 

'•'Djali,"  pursued  the  Egyptian,  with  still  another  move- 
ment of  the  tambourine,  "  what  hour  of  the  day  is  it  ?  " 

Djali  struck  seven  blows.  At  that  moment,  the  clock  of 
the  Pillar  House  rang  out  seven. 

The  people  were  amazed. 

"  There's  sorcery  at  the  bottom  of  it,"  said  a  sinister  voice 
in  the  crowd.  It  was  that  of  the  bald  man,  who  never  re- 
moved his  eyes  from  the  gypsy. 

She  shuddered  and  turned  round ;  but  applause  broke  forth 
and  drowned  the  morose  exclamation. 

It  even  effaced  it  so  completely  from  her  mind,  that  she 
continued  to  question  her  goat. 

"Djali,  what  does  Master  Guichard  Grand-Eemy,  captain  of 
the  pistoliers  of  the  town  do,  at  the  procession  of  Candle- 
mas ?  " 

Djali  reared  himself  on  his  hind  legs,  and  began  to  bleat, 
marching  along  with  so  much  dainty  gravity,  that  the  entire 
circle  of  spectators  burst  into  a  laugh  at  this  parody  of  the 
interested  devoutness  of  the  captain  of  pistoliers. 

"  Djali,"  resumed  the  young  girl,  emboldened  by  her  grow- 
ing success,  "how  preaches  Master  Jacques  Charmolue,  procu- 
rator to  the  king  in  the  ecclesiastical  court  ?  " 

The  goat  seated  himself  on  his  hind  quarters,  and  began 
to  bleat,  waving  his  fore  feet  in  so  strange  a  manner,  that, 
with  the  exception  of  the  bad  French,  and  worse  Latin, 
Jacques  Charmolue  was  there  complete,  —  gesture,  accent,  and 
attitude. 

And  the  crowd  applauded  louder  than  ever. 

"Sacrilege!  profanation!"  resumed  the  voice  of  the  bald 
man. 


63  NOTRE-DAME. 

The  gypsy  turned  round  once  more. 

"  Ah ! "  said  she,  "  'tis  that  villanous  man  ! "  Then,  thrust- 
ing her  under  lip  out  beyond  the  upper,  she  made  a  little 
pout,  which  appeared  to  be  familiar  to  her,  executed  a  pirou- 
ette on  her  heel,  and  set  about  collecting  in  her  tambourine 
the  gifts  of  the  multitude. 

Big  blanks,  little  blanks,  targes  *  and  eagle  liards  showered 
into  it. 

All  at  once,  she  passed  in  front  of  Gringoire.  Gringoire 
put  his  hand  so  recklessly  into  his  pocket  that  she  halted. 
"  The  devil ! "  said  the  pqet,  finding  at  the  bottom  of  his 
pocket  the  reality,  that  is,  to  say,  a  void.  In  the  meantime, 
the  pretty  girl  stood  there,  gazing  at  him  with  her  big  eyes, 
and  holding  out  her  tambourine  to  him  and  waiting.  Grin- 
goire broke  into  a  violent  perspiration. 

If  he  had  all  Peru  in  his  pocket,  he  would  certainly  have 
given  it  to  the  dancer ;  but  Gringoire  had  not  Peru,  and, 
moreover,  America  had  not  yet  been  discovered 

Happily,  an  unexpected  incident  came  to  his  rescue. 

"  Will  you  take  yourself  off,  you  Egyptian  grasshopper  ?  " 
cried  a  sharp  voice,  which  proceeded  from  the  darkest  corner 
of  the  Place. 

The  young  girl  turned  round  in  affright.  It  was  no  longer 
the  voice  of  the  bald  man;  it  was  the  voice  of  a  woman, 
bigoted  and  malicious. 

However,  this  cry,  which  alarmed  the  gypsy,  delighted  a 
troop  of  children  who  were  prowling  about  there. 

"It  is  the  recluse  of  the  Tour-Roland,"  they  exclaimed, 
with  wild  laughter,  "  it  is  the  -sacked  nun  who  is  scolding ! 
Hasn't  she  supped  ?  Let's  carry  her  the  remains  of  the  city 
refreshments ! " 

All  rushed  towards  the  Pillar  House. 

In  the  meanwhile,  Gringoire  had  taken  advantage  of  the 
dancer's  embarrassment,  to  disappear.  The  children's  shouts 
had  reminded  him  that  he,  also,  had  not  supped,  so  he  ran  to 

*  A  blank:  an  old  French  coin;  six  blanks  were  worth  two  sous  and  a 
half;  targe,  an  ancient  coin  of  Burgundy,  a  farthing. 


KISSES  FOE  BLOWS.  69 

the  public  buffet.  But  the  little  rascals  had  better  legs  than 
he ;  when  he  arrived,  they  had  stripped  the  table.  There 
remained  not  so  much  as  a  miserable  camichon  at  five  sous 
the  pound.  Nothing  remained  upon  the  wall  but  slender 
fleurs-de-lis,  mingled  with  rose  bushes,  painted  in  1434  by 
^lathieu  Biterne.  It  was  a  meagre  supper. 

It  is  an  unpleasant  thing  to  go  to  bed  without  supper,  it  is 
a  still  less  pleasant  thing  not  to  sup  and  not  to  know  where 
one  is  to  sleep.  That  was  Gringoire's  condition.  No  supper, 
no  shelter ;  he  saw  himself  pressed  on  all  sides  by  necessity, 
and  he  found  necessity  very  crabbed.  He  had  long  ago  dis- 
covered the  truth,  that  Jupiter  created  men  during  a  fit  of 
misanthropy,  and  that  during  a  wise  man's  whole  life,  his 
destiny  holds  his  philosophy  in  a  state  of  siege.  As  for  him- 
self, he  had  never  seen  the  blockade  so  complete ;  he  heard 
his  stomach  sounding  a  parley,  and  he  considered  it  very  much 
out  of  place  that  evil  destiny  should  capture  his  philosophy 
by  famine. 

This  melancholy  revery  was  absorbing  him  more  and  more, 
when  a  song,  quaint  but  full  of  sweetness,  suddenly  tore  him 
from  it.  It  was  the  young  gypsy  who  was  singing. 

Her  voice  was  like  her  dancing,  like  her  beauty.  It  was 
indefinable  and  charming ;  something  pure  and  sonorous, 
aerial,  winged,  so  to  speak.  There  were  continual  outbursts, 
melodies,  unexpected  cadences,  then  simple  phrases  strewn 
with  aerial  and  hissing  notes ;  then  floods  of  scales  which 
would  have  put  a  nightingale  to  rout,  but  in  which  harmony 
was  always  present ;  then  soft  modulations  of  octaves  which 
rose  and  fell,  like  the  bosom  of  the  young  singer.  Her  beau- 
tiful face  followed,  with  singular  mobility,  all  the  caprices  of 
her  song,  from  the  wildest  inspiration  to  the  chastest  dignity. 
One  would  have  pronounced  her  now  a  mad  creature,  now  a 
queen. 

The  words  which  she  sang  were  in  a  tongue  unknown  to 
Gringoire,  and  which  seemed  to  him  to  be  unknown  to  herself, 
so  little  relation  did  the  expression  which  she  imparted  to  her 
song  bear  to  the  sense  of  the  words.  Thus,  these  four  lines, 
in  her  mouth,  were  madly  gay,  — 


70  NOTRE-DAME. 

Un  cof  re  de  gran  riqueza 

Hallaron  dentro  un  pilar, 
Dentro  del,  nuevas  banderas 

Con  figuras  de  espantar.* 

And  an  instant  afterwards,  at  the  accents  which  she  imparted 
to  this  stanza,  — 

Alarabes  de  cavallo 

Sin  poderse  menear, 
Con  espadas,  y  los  cuellos, 

Ballestas  de  buen  echar, 

Gringoire  felt  the  tears  start  to  his  eyes.  Nevertheless,  her 
song  breathed  joy,  most  of  all,  and  she  seemed  to  sing  like  a 
bird,  from  serenity  and  heedlessness. 

The  gypsy's  song  had  disturbed  Gringoire's  revery  as  the 
swan  disturbs  the  water.  He  listened  in  a  sort  of  rapture, 
and  forgetfulness  of  everything.  It  was  the  first  moment  in 
the  course  of  many  hours  when  he  did  not  feel  that  he  suf- 
fered. 

The  moment  was  brief. 

The  same  woman's  voice,  which  had  interrupted  the  gypsy's 
dance,  interrupted  her  song. 

"  Will  you  hold  your  tongue,  you  cricket  of  hell  ?  "  it  cried, 
still  from  the  same  obscure  corner  of  the  place. 

The  poor  "  cricket  "  stopped  short.  Gringoire  covered  up 
his  ears. 

"  Oh ! "  he  exclaimed,  "  accursed  saw  with  missing  teeth, 
which  comes  to  break  the  lyre !  " 

Meanwhile,  the  other  spectators  murmured  like  himself; 
"  To  the  devil  with  the  sacked  nun ! "  said  some  of  them. 
And  the  old  invisible  kill-joy  might  have  had  occasion  to 
repent  of  her  aggressions  against  the  gypsy  had  their  atten- 
tion not  been  diverted  at  this  moment  by  the  procession  of 
the  Pope  of  the  Fools,  which,  after  having  traversed  many 

*  A  coffer  of  great  richness 

In  a  pillar's  heart  they  found, 
Within  it  lay  new  banners, 
With  figures  to  astound. 


KISSES  FOR  BLOWS.  71 

streets  and  squares,  debouched  on  the  Place  de  Greve,  with 
all  its  torches  and  all  its  uproar. 

This  procession,  which  our  readers  have  seen  set  out  from 
the  Palais  de  Justice,  had  organized  on  the  way,  and  had  been 
recruited  by  all  the  knaves,  idle  thieves,  and  unemployed  vaga- 
bonds in  Paris ;  so  that  it  presented  a  very  respectable  aspect 
when  it  arrived  at  the  Greve. 

First  came  Egypt.  The  Duke  of  Egypt  headed  it,  on  horse- 
back, with  his  counts  on  foot  holding  his  bridle  and  stir- 
rups for  him ;  behind  them,  the  male  and  female  Egyptians, 
pell-mell,  with  their  little  children  crying  on  their  shoulders ; 
all  —  duke,  counts,  and  populace  —  in  rags  and  tatters.  Then 
came  the  Kingdom  of  Argot ;  that  is  to  say,  all  the  thieves  of 
France,  arranged  according  to  the  order  of  their  dignity ;  the 
minor  people  walking  first.  Thus  defiled  by  fours,  with  the 
divers  insignia  of  their  grades,  in  that  strange  faculty,  most  of 
them  lame,  some  cripples,  others  one-armed,  shop  clerks,  pil- 
grims, hub  ins,  bootblacks,  thimble-riggers,  street  arabs,  beg- 
gars, the  blear-eyed  beggars,  thieves,  the  weakly,  vagabonds, 
merchants,  sham  soldiers,  goldsmiths,  passed  masters  of  pick- 
pockets, isolated  thieves.  A  catalogue  that  would  weary 
Homer.  In  the  centre  of  the  conclave  of  the  passed  masters 
of  pickpockets,  one  had  some  difficulty  in  distinguishing  the 
King  of  Argot,  the  grand  coe'sre,  so  called,  crouching  in  a 
little  cart  drawn  by  two  big  dogs.  After  the  kingdom,  of  the 
Argotiers,  came  the  Empire  of  Galilee.  Guillaume  Eousseau, 
Emperor  of  the  Empire  of  Galilee,  marched  majestically  in 
his  robe  of  purple,  spotted  with  wine,  preceded  by  buffoons 
wrestling  and  executing  military  dances ;  surrounded  by  his 
macebearers,  his  pickpockets  and  clerks  of  the  chamber  of 
accounts.  Last  of  all  came  the  corporation  of  law  clerks, 
with  its  maypoles  crowned  with  flowers,  its  black  robes,  its 
music  worthy  of  the  orgy,  and  its  large  candles  of  yellow 
wax.  In  the  centre  of  this  crowd,  the  grand  officers  of  the 
Brotherhood  of  Fools  bore  on  their  shoulders  a  litter  more 
loaded  down  with  candles  than  the  reliquary  of  Sainte-Gene- 
vieve  in  time  of  pest ;  and  on  this  litter  shone  resplendent, 
with  crosier,  cope,  and  mitre,  the  new  Pope  of  the  Fools,  the 
bellringer  of  Notre-Dame,  Quasimodo  the  hunchback. 


72  NOTRE-DAME. 

Each  section  of  this  grotesque  procession  had  its  own  music. 
The  Egyptians  made  their  drums  and  African  tambourines 
resound.  The  slang  men,  not  a  very  musical  race,  still  clung 
to  the  goat's  horn  trumpet  and  the  Gothic  rubebbe  of  the 
twelfth  century.  The  Empire  of  Galilee  was  not  much  more 
advanced ;  among  its  music  one  could  hardly  distinguish  some 
miserable  rebec,  from  the  infancy  of  the  art,  still  imprisoned 
in  the  re-la-mi.  But  it  was  around  the  Pope  of  the  Fools  that 
all  the  musical  riches  of  the  epoch  were  displayed  in  a  magni- 
ficent discord.  It  was  nothing  but  soprano  rebecs,  counter- 
tenor rebecs,  and  tenor  rebecs,  not  to  reckon  the  flutes  and 
brass  instruments.  Alas  !  our  readers  will  remember  that  this 
was  Gringoire's  orchestra. 

It  is  difficult  to  convey  an  idea  of  the  degree  of  proud  and 
blissful  expansion  to  which  the  sad  and  hideous  visage  of 
Quasimodo  had  attained  during  the  transit  from  the  Palais  de 
Justice,  to  the  Place  de  Greve.  It  was  the  first  enjoyment  of 
self-love  that  he  had  ever  experienced.  Down  to  that  day,  he 
had  known  only  humiliation,  disdain  for  his  condition,  disgust 
for  his  person.  Hence,  deaf  though  he  was,  he  enjoyed,  like 
a  veritable  pope,  the  acclamations  of  that  throng,  which  he 
hated  because  he  felt  that  he  was  hated  by  it.  What  mat- 
tered it  that  his  people  consisted  of  a  pack  of  fools,  cripples, 
thieves,  and  beggars  ?  it  was  still  a  people  and  he  was  its 
sovereign.  And  he  accepted  seriously  all  this  ironical  ap- 
plause, all  this  derisive  respect,  with  which  the  crowd  mingled, 
it  must  be  admitted,  a  good  deal  of  very  real  fear.  For  the 
hunchback  was  robust ;  for  the  bandy-legged  fellow  was  agile ; 
for  the  deaf  man  was  malicious  :  three  qualities  which  temper 
ridicule. 

We  are  far  from  believing,  however,  that  the  new  Pope  of 
the  Fools  understood  both  the  sentiments  which  he  felt  and 
the  sentiments  which  he  inspired.  The  spirit  which  was 
lodged  m  this  failure  of  a  body  had,  necessarily,  something 
incomplete  and  deaf  about  it.  Thus,  what  he  felt  at  the  mo- 
ment was  to  him,  absolutely  vague,  indistinct,  and  confused. 
Only  joy  made  itself  felt,  only  pride  dominated.  Around  that 
sombre  and  unhappy  face,  there  hung  a  radiance. 


KISSES  FOR  BLOWS.  73 

It  was,  then,  not  without  surprise  and  alarm,  that  at  the 
very  moment  when  Quasimodo  was  passing  the  Pillar  House, 
in  that  semi-intoxicated  state,  a  man  was  seen  to  dart  from 
the  crowd,  and  to  tear  from  his  hands,  with  a  gesture  of  anger, 
his  crosier  of  gilded  wood,  the  emblem  of  his  mock  popeship. 

This  man,  this  rash  individual,  was  the  man  with  the  bald 
brow,  who,  a  moment  earlier,  standing  with  the  gypsy's 
group  had  chilled  the  poor  girl  with  his  words  of  menace  and 
of  hatred.  He  was  dressed  in  an  ecclesiastical  costume.  At 
the  moment  when  he  stood  forth  from  the  crowd,  Gringoire, 
who  had  not  noticed  him  up  to  that  time,  recognized  him : 
'•Hold!"  he  said,  with  an  exclamation  of  astonishment. 
"  Eh !  'tis  my  master  in  Hermes,  Dom  Claude  Frollo,  the 
archdeacon !  What  the  devil  does  he  want  of  that  old  one- 
eyed  fellow  ?  He'll  get  himself  devoured ! " 

A  cry  of  terror  arose,  in  fact.  The  formidable  Quasimodo 
had  hurled  himself  from  the  litter,  and,  the  women  turned 
aside  their  eyes  in  order  not  to  see  him  tear  the  archdeacon 
asunder. 

He  made  one  bound  as  far  as  the  priest,  looked  at  him,  and 
fell  upon  his  knees. 

The  priest  tore  off  his  tiara,  broke  his  crozier,  and  rent  his 
tinsel  cope. 

Quasimodo  remained  on  his  knees,  with  head  bent  and  hands 
clasped.  Then  there  was  established  between  them  a  strange 
dialogue  of  signs  and  gestures,  for  neither  of  them  spoke. 
The  priest,  erect  on  his  feet,  irritated,  threatening,  imperious ; 
Quasimodo,  prostrate,  humble,  suppliant.  And,  nevertheless, 
it  is  certain  that  Quasimodo  could  have  crushed  the  priest 
with  his  thumb. 

At  length  the  archdeacon,  giving  Quasimodo's  powerful 
shoulder  a  rough  shake,  made  him  a  sign  to  rise  and  follow 
him. 

Quasimodo  rose. 

Then  the  Brotherhood  of  Fools,  their  first  stupor  having 
passed  off,  wished  to  defend  their  pope,  so  abruptly  dethroned. 
The  Egyptians,  the  men  of  slang,  and  all  the  fraternity  of 
law  clerks,  gathered  howling  round  the  priest. 


74  NOTRE-DAME. 

Quasimodo  placed  himself  in  front  of  the  priest,  set  in  play 
the  muscles  of  his  athletic  fists,  and  glared  upon  the  assailants 
with  the  snarl  of  an  angry  tiger. 

The  priest  resumed  his  sombre  gravity,  made  a  sign  to  Quasi- 
modo, and  retired  in  silence. 

Quasimodo  walked  in  front  of  him,  scattering  the  crowd  as 
he  passed. 

When  they  had  traversed  the  populace  and  the  Place,  the 
cloud  of  curious  and  idle  were  minded  to  follow  them.  Quasi- 
modo then  constituted  himself  the  rearguard,  and  followed 
the  archdeacon,  walking  backwards,  squat,  surly,  monstrous, 
bristling,  gathering  up  his  limbs,  licking  his  boar's  tusks, 
growling  like  a  wild  beast,  and  imparting  to  the  crowd  immense 
vibrations,  with  a  look  or  a  gesture. 

Both  were  allowed  to  plunge  into  a  dark  and  narrow  street, 
where  no  one  dared  to  venture  after  them ;  so  thoroughly  did 
the  mere  chimera  of  Quasimodo  gnashing  his  teeth  bar  the 
entrance. 

"  Here's  a  marvellous  thing,"  said  Gringoire ;  "  but  where 
the  deuce  shall  I  find  some  supper  ?  " 


CHAPTEE  IV. 


THE    INCONVENIENCES    OF    FOLLOWING    A    PRETTY    WOMAX 
THROUGH    THE    STREETS    IX    THE    EVENING. 

GRINGOIRE  set  out  to  follow  the  gypsy  at  all  hazards.  He 
had  seen  her,  accompanied  by  her  goat,  take  to  the  Kue  de  la 
Coutellerie ;  he  took  the  Rue  de  la  Coutellerie. 

••  \Vhy  not  ?  "  he  said  to  himself. 

Gringoire,  a  practical  philosopher  of  the  streets  of  Paris, 
had  noticed  that  nothing  is  more  propitious  to  revery  than 
following  a  pretty  woman  without  knowing  whither  she  is 
going.  There  was  in  this  voluntary  abdication  of  his  free- 
will, in  this  fancy  submitting  itself  to  another  fancy,  which 
suspects  it  not,  a  mixture  of  fantastic  independence  and  blind 
obedience,  something  indescribable,  intermediate  between  slav- 
ery and  liberty,  which  pleased  Gringore,  —  a  spirit  essentially 
compound,  undecided,  and  complex,  holding  the  extremities  of 
all  extremes,  incessantly  suspended  between  all  human  pro- 
pensities, and  neutralizing  one  by  the  other.  He  was  fond  of 
comparing  himself  to  Mahomet's  coffin,  attracted  in  two  dif- 
ferent directions  by  two  loadstones,  and  hesitating  eternally 
between  the  heights  and  the  depths,  between  the  vault  and  the 
pavement,  between  fall  and  ascent,  between  zenith  and  nadir. 

If  Gringoire  had  lived  in  our  day,  what  a  fine  middle  course 
he  would  hold  between  classicism  and  romanticism ! 

But  lie  Avas  not  sufficiently  primitive  to  live  three  hundred 
years,  and  'tis  a  pity.  His  absence  is  a  void  which  is  but  too 
sensibly  felt  to-day. 

75 


76  NOTEE-DANE. 

Moreover,  for  the  purpose  of  thus  following  passers-by  (and 
especially  female  passers-by)  in  the  streets,  which  Gringoire 
was  fond  of  doing,  there  is  no  better  disposition  than  igno- 
rance of  where  one  is  going  to  sleep. 

So  he  walked  along,  very  thoughtfully,  behind  the  young 
girl,  who  hastened  her  pace  and  made  her  goat  trot  as  she 
saw  the  bourgeois  returning  home  and  the  taverns  —  the  only 
shops  which  had  been  open  that  day  —  closing. 

"  After  all,"  he  half  thought  to  himself,  "  she  must  lodge 
somewhere ;  gypsies  have  kindly  hearts.  Who  knows  ?  —  " 

And  in  the  points  of  suspense  which  he  placed  after  this  re- 
reticence  in  his  mind,  there  lay  I  know  not  what  flattering  ideas. 

Meanwhile,  from  time  to  time,  as  he  passed  the  last  groups 
of  bourgeois  closing  their  doors,  he  caught  some  scraps  of 
their  conversation,  which  broke  the  thread  of  his  pleasant 
hypotheses. 

Now  it  was  two  old  men  accosting  each  other. 

"  Do  you  know  that  it  is  cold,  Master  Thibaut  Fernicle  ?  " 
(Gringoire  had  been  aware  of  this  since  the  beginning  of  the 
winter.) 

"  Yes,  indeed,  Master  Boniface  Disome !  Are  we  going  to 
have  a  winter  such  as  we  had  three  years  ago,  in  '80,  when 
wood  cost  eight  sous  the  measure  ?  " 

"  Bah !  that's  nothing,  Master  Thibaut,  compared  with  the 
winter  of  1407,  when  it  froze  from  St.  Martin's  Day  until 
Candlemas !  and  so  cold  that  the  pen  of  the  registrar  of  the 
parliament  froze  every  three  words,  in  the  Grand  Chamber ! 
which  interrupted  the  registration  of  justice." 

Further  on  there  were  two  female  neighbors  at  their  win- 
dows, holding  candles,  which  the  fog  caused  to  sputter. 

••  Has  your  husband  told  you  about  the  mishap,  Mademoi- 
selle la  Boudraque  ?  " 

"No.     What  is  it,  Mademoiselle  Turquant  ?  " 

"  The  horse  of  M.  Gilles  Godin,  the  notary  at  the  Chatelet, 
took  fright  at  the  Flemings  and  their  procession,  and  over- 
turned Master  Philippe  Avrillot,  lay  monk  of  the  Celestins." 

"  Really  ?  " 

"Actually." 


FOLLOWING  A   PRETTY    WOMAN.  77 

"  A  bourgeois  horse  !  'tis  rather  too  much  !  If  it  had  been 
a  cavalry  horse,  well  and  good  !  " 

And  the  windows  were  closed.  But  Gringoire  had  lost  the 
thread  of  his  ideas,  nevertheless. 

Fortunately,  he  speedily  found  it  again,  and  he  knotted  it 
together  without  difficulty,  thanks  to  the  gypsy,  thanks  to 
Djali,  who  still  walked  in  front  of  him  ;  two  fine,  delicate,  and 
charming  creatures,  whose  tiny  feet,  beautiful  forms,  and 
graceful  manners  he  was  engaged  in  admiring,  almost  con- 
fusing them  in  his  contemplation ;  believing  them  to  be  both 
young  girls,  from  their  intelligence  and  good  friendship ;  re- 
garding them  both  as  goats,  —  so  far  as  the  lightness,  agility, 
and  dexterity  of  their  walk  were  concerned. 

But  the  streets  were  becoming  blacker  and  more  deserted 
every  moment.  The  curfew  had  sounded  long  ago,  and  it  wa? 
only  at  rare  intervals  now  that  they  encountered  a  passer-by 
in  the  street,  or  a  light  in  the  windows.  Gringoire  had 
become  involved,  in  his  pursuit  of  the  gypsy,  in  that  inextri- 
cable labyrinth  of  alleys,  squares,  and  closed  courts  which 
surround  the  ancient  sepulchre  of  the  Saints-Innocents,  and 
which  resembles  a  ball  of  thread  tangled  by  a  cat.  "  Here 
are  streets  which  possess  but  little  logic ! "  said  Gringoire, 
lost  in  the  thousands  of  circuits  which  returned  upon  them- 
selves incessantly,  but  where  the  young  girl  pursued  a  road 
which  seemed  familiar  to  her,  without  hesitation  and  with 
a  step  which  became  ever  more  rapid.  As  for  him,  he 
would  have  been  utterly  ignorant  of  his  situation  had  he  not 
espied,  in  passing,  at  the  turn  of  a  street,  the  octagonal  mass 
of  the  pillory  of  the  fish  markets,  the  open-work  summit  of 
which  threw  its  black,  fretted  outlines  clearly  upon  a  window 
which  was  still  lighted  in  the  Rue  Verdelet. 

The  young  girl's  attention  had  been  attracted  to  him  for  the 
last  few  moments ;  she  had  repeatedly  turned  her  head  towards 
him  with  uneasiness ;  she  had  even  once  come  to  a  standstill, 
and  taking  advantage  of  a  ray  of  light  which  escaped  from  a 
half-open  bakery  to  survey  him  intently,  from  head  to  foot,  then, 
having  cast  this  glance,  Gringoire  had  seen  her  make  that  little 
pout  which  he  had  already  noticed,  after  which  she  passed  on. 


78  NOTRE-DAME. 

This  little  pout  had  furnished  Griugoire  with  food  for 
thought.  There  was  certainly  both  disdain  and  mockery  in 
that  graceful  grimace.  So  he  dropped  his  head,  began  to 
count  the  paving-stones,  and  to  follow  the  young  girl  at  a  lit- 
tle greater  distance,  when,  at  the  turn  of  a  street,  which  had 
caused  him  to  lose  sight  of  her,  he  heard  her  utter  a  piercing  cry. 

He  hastened  his  steps. 

The  street  was  full  of  shadows.  Nevertheless,  a  twist  of 
tow  soaked  in  oil,  which  burned  in  a  cage  at  the  feet  of  the 
Holy  Virgin  at  the  street  corner,  permitted  Gringoire  to  make 
out  the  gypsy  struggling  in  the  arms  of  two  men,  who  were 
endeavoring  to  stifle  her  cries.  The  poor  little  goat,  in  great 
alarm,  lowered  his  horns  and  bleated. 

"  Help  !  gentlemen  of  the  watch ! "    shouted  Gringoire,  and 
advanced  bravely.     One  of  the  men  who  held  the  young  girl 
turned  towards  him.     It  was  the  formidable  visage  of  Quasi- ' 
modo. 

Gringoire  did  not  take  to  flight,  but  neither  did  he  advance 
another  step. 

Quasimodo  came  up  to  him,  tossed  him  four  paces  away  on 
the  pavement  with  a  backward  turn  of  the  hand,  and  plunged 
rapidly  into  the  gloom,  bearing  the  young  girl  folded  across 
one  arm  like  a  silken  scarf.  His  companion  followed  him,  and 
the  poor  goat  ran  after  them  all,  bleating  plaintively. 

••  Murder !  murder  !  "  shrieked  the  unhappy  gypsy. 

"  Halt,  rascals,  and  yield  me  that  wench ! "  suddenly  shouted 
in  a  voice  of  thunder,  a  cavalier  who  appeared  suddenly  from 
a  neighboring  square. 

It  was  a  captain  of  the  king's  archers,  armed  from  head  to 
foot,  with  his  sword  in  his  hand. 

He  tore  the  gypsy  from  the  arms  of  the  dazed  Quasimodo, 
threw  her  across  his  saddle,  and  at  the  moment  when  the  ter- 
rible hunchback,  recovering  from  his  surprise,  rushed  upon 
him  to  regain  his  prey,  fifteen  or  sixteen  archers,  who  fol- 
lowed their  captain  closely,  made  their  appearance,  with  their 
two-edged  swords  in  their  fists.  It  was  a  squad  of  the  king's 
police,  which  was  making  the  rounds,  by  order  of  Messire 
Robert  d'Estouteville,  guard  of  the  provostship  of  Paris. 


FOLLOWING   A   PRETTY   WOMAN.  79 

Quasimodo  was  surrounded,  seized,  garroted ;  he  roared,  he 
foamed  at  the  mouth,  he  bit;  and  had  it  been  broad  daylight, 
there  is  no  doubt  that  his  face  alone,  rendered  more  hideous  by 
wrath,  would  have  put  the  entire  squad  to  flight.  But  by  night 
lie  was  deprived  of  his  most  formidable  weapon,  his  ugliness. 

His  companion  had  disappeared  during  the  struggle. 

The  gypsy  gracefully  raised  herself  upright  upon  the  officer's 
saddle,  placed  both  hands  upon  the  young  man's  shoulders, 
and  gazed  fixedly  at  him  for  several  seconds,  as  though  en- 
chanted with  his  good  looks  and  with  the  aid  which  he  had 
just  rendered  her.  Then  breaking  silence  first,  she  said  to 
him,  making  her  sweet  voice  still  sweeter  than  usual, — 

'•'  What  is  your  name,  monsieur  le  gendarme  ?  " 

"  Captain  Phoebus  de  Chateaupers,  at  your  service,  my 
be'auty  ! ''  replied  the  officer,  drawing  himself  up. 

•'•  Thanks,''  said  she. 

And  while  Captain  Phoebus  was  turning  up  his  moustache 
in  Burgundian  fashion,  she  slipped  from  the  horse,  like  an 
arrow  falling  to  earth,  and  fled '. 

A  flash  of  lightning  would  have  vanished  less  quickly. 

"  Xombrill  of  the  Pope  ! "  said  the  captain,  causing  Quasi- 
modo's straps  to  be  drawn  tighter,  "  I  should  have  preferred 
to  keep  the  wench." 

"  What  would  you  have,  captain  ? "  said  one  gendarme, 
"  The  warbler  has  fled,  and  the  bat  remains." 


CHAPTER  V. 


RESULT    OF    THE    DANGERS. 

GRINGOIRE,  thoroughly  stunned  by  his  fall,  remained  01. 
the  pavement  in  front  of  the  Holy  Virgin  at  the  street  corner.. 
Little  by  little,  he  regained  his  senses ;  at  first,  for  several 
minutes,  he  was  floating  in  a  sort  of  half-somnolent  revery, 
which  was  not  without  its  charm,  in  which  aeriel  figures  oi 
the  gypsy  and  her  goat  were  coupled  with  Quasimodo's  heavy 
fist.  This  state  lasted  but  a  short  time.  A  decidedly  viviO 
sensation  of  cold  in  the  part  of  his  body  which  was  in  con- 
tact with  the  pavement,  suddenly  aroused  him  and  caused  his 
spirit  to  return  to  the  surface. 

"  Whence  comes  this  chill  ?"  he  said  abruptly,  to  himself. 
He  then  perceived  that  he  was  lying  half  in  the  middle  of  the 
gutter. 

"  That  devil  of  a  hunchbacked  cyclops  ! "  he  muttered  be- 
tween his  teeth ;  and  he  tried  to  rise.  But  he  was  too  much 
dazed  and  bruised ;  he  was  forced  to  remain  where  he  was. 
Moreover,  his  hand  was  tolerably  free ;  he  stopped  up  his  nose 
and  resigned  himself. 

"The  mud  of  Paris,"  he  said  to  himself  —  for  decidedly  he 
thought  that  he  was  sure  that  the  gutter  would  prove  his 
refuge  for  the  night ;  and  what  can  one  do  in  a  refuge,  except 
dream  ?  —  "  the  mud  of  Paris  is  particularly  stinking ;  it  must 
contain  a  great  deal  of  volatile  and  nitric  salts.  That,  more- 
over, is  the  opinion  of  Master  Nicholas  Flamel,  and  of  the 
alchemists  —  " 

The  word  alchemists  suddenly  suggested  to  his  mind  the 

80 


RESULT  OF  THE  DANGERS.  81 

idea  of  Archdeacon  Claude  Frollo.  He  recalled  the  violent 
scene  which  he  had  just  witnessed  in  part ;  that  the  gypsy  was 
struggling  with  two  men,  that  Quasimodo  had  a  companion ; 
and  the  morose  and  haughty  face  of  the  archdeacon  passed 
confusedly  through  his  memory.  "  That  would  be  strange  !  " 
he  said  to  himself.  And  on  that  fact  and  that  basis  he  began 
to  construct  a  fantastic  edifice  of  hypothesis,  that  card-castle 
of  philosophers ;  then,  suddenly  returning  once  more  to 
reality,  "Come!  I'm  freezing!"  he  ejaculated. 

The  place  was,  in  fact,  becoming  less  and  less  tenable. 
Each  molecule  of  the  gutter  bore  away  a  molecule  of  heat 
radiating  from  Gringoire's  loins,  and  the  equilibrium  between 
the  temperature  of  his  body  and  the  temperature  of  the  brook, 
began  to  be  established  in  rough  fashion. 

Quite  a  different  annoyance  suddenly  assailed  him.  A  group 
of  children,  those  little  bar,e-footed  savages  who  have  always 
roamed  the  pavements  of  Paris  under,  the  eternal  name  of 
gamins,  and  who,  when  we  were  also  children  ourselves,  threw 
stones  at  all  of  us  in  the  afternoon,  when  we  came  out  of 
school,  because  our  trousers  were  not  torn  —  a  swarm  of  these 
young  scamps  rushed  towards  the  square  where  Gringoire  lay, 
with  shouts  and  laughter  which  seemed  to  pay  but  little  heed 
to  the  sleep  of  the  neighbors.  They  were  dragging  after  them 
some  sort  of  hideous  sack ;  and  the  noise  of  their  wooden 
shoes  alone  would  have  roused  the  dead.  Gringoire  who  was 
not  quite  dead  yet,  half  raised  himself. 

"  Ohe,  Hennequin  Dandeche  !  Ohe,  Jehan  Pincebourde  ! " 
they  shouted  in  deafening  tones,  "  old  Eustache  Moubon,  the 
merchant  at  the  corner,  has  just  died.  We've  got  his  straw 
pallet,  we're  going  to  have  a  bonfire  out  of  it.  It's  the  turn 
of  the  Flemish  to-day  !  " 

And  behold,  they  flung  the  pallet  directly  upon  Gringoire, 
beside  whom  they  had  arrived,  without  espying  him.  At  the 
same  time,  one  of  them  took  a  handful  of  straw  and  set  off 
to  light  it  at  the  wick  of  the  good  Virgin. 

"  S'death  !  "  growled  Gringoire,  "  am  I  going  to  be  too  warm 
now  ?  " 

It  was  a  critical  moment.     He  was  caught  betAveen  fire  and 


82 


NOTRE-DAME. 


water;  he  made  a  superhuman  effort,  the  effort  of  a  counter* 
feiter  of  money  who  is  on  the  point  of  being  boiled,  and  who 
seeks  to  escape.  He  rose  to  his  feet,  flung  aside  the  straw 
pallet  upon  the  street  urchins,  and  fled. 

"  Holy  Virgin ! "  shrieked  the  children ;  "  'tis  the  merchant's 
ghost ! " 

And  they  fled  in  their  turn. 

The  straw  mattress  remained  master  of  the  field.  Belle- 
foret,  Father  Le  Juge,  and  Corrozet  affirm  that  it  was  picked 
up  on  the  morrow,  with  great  pomp,  by  the  clergy  of  the 
quarter,  and  borne  to  the  treasury  of  the  church  of  Saint  Op- 
portune, where  the  sacristan,  even  as  late  as  1789,  earned  a 
tolerably  handsome  revenue  out  of  the  great  miracle  of  the 
Statue  of  the  Virgin  at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  Mauconseil, 
which  had,  by  its  mere  presence,  on  the  memorable  night  be- 
tween the  sixth  and  seventh  of  January,  1482,  exorcised  the 
defunct  Eustache  Moubon,  who,  in  order  to  play  a  trick  on 
the  devil,  had  at  his  death  maliciously  concealed  his  soul  in 
his  straw  pallet. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE    BROKEN    JUG. 

AFTER  having  run  for  some  time  at  the  top  of  his  speed, 
without  knowing  whither,  knocking  his  head  against  many  a 
street  corner,  leaping  many  a  gutter,  traversing  many  an  alley, 
many  a  court,  many  a  square,  seeking  flight  and  passage  through 
all  the  meanderings  of  the  ancient  passages  of  the  Halles,  ex- 
ploring in  his  panic  terror  what  the  fine  Latin  of  the  maps 
calls  tota  via,  cheminum  et  viaria,  our  poet  suddenly  halted 
for  lack  of  breath  in  the  first  place,  and  in  the  second,  because 
he  had  been  collared,  after  a  fashion,  by  a  dilemma  which 
had  just  occurred  to  his  mind.  "  It  strikes  me,  Master  Pierre 
Gringoire,"  he  said  to  himself,  placing  his  finger  to  his  brow, 
"  that  you  are  running  like  a  madman.  The  little  scamps  are 
no  less  afraid  of  you  than  you  are  of  them.  It  strikes  me, 
I  say,  that  you  heard  the  clatter  of  their  wooden  shoes 
fleeing  southward,  while  you  were  fleeing  northward.  Xow, 
one  of  two  things,  either  they  have  taken  flight,  and  the 
pallet,  which  they  must  have  forgotten  in  their  terror,  is  pre- 
cisely that  hospitable  bed  in  search  of  which  you  have ^ been 
running  ever  since  morning,  and  which  madame  the  Virgin 
miraculously  sends  you,  in  order  to  recompense  you  for  having 
made  a  morality  in  her  honor,  accompanied  by  triumphs  and 
mummeries  ;  or  the  children  have  not  taken  flight,  and  in  that 
case  they  have  put  the  brand  to  the  pallet,  and  that  is  pre- 
cisely the  good  fire  which  you  need  to  cheer,  dry,  and  warm 

S3 


84  NOT  i  ;E- it  A  ME. 

you.  In  either  case,  good  fire  or  good  bed,  that  straw  pallet 
is  a  gift  from  heaven.  The  blessed  Virgin  Marie  who  stands 
at  the  corner  of  the  Kue  Mauconseil,  could  only  have  made 
Eustache  Moubon  die  for  that  express  purpose ;  and  it  is  folly 
on  your  part  to  flee  thus  zigzag,  like  a  Picard  before  a  French- 
man, leaving  behind  you  what  you  seek  before  you ;  and  you 
are  a  fool ! " 

Then  he  retraced  his  steps,  and  feeling  his  way  and  search- 
ing, with  his  nose  to  the  wind  and  his  ears  on  the  alert,  he 
tried  to  find  the  blessed  pallet  again,  but  in  vain.  There  was 
nothing  to  be  found  but  intersections  of  houses,  closed  courts, 
and  crossings  of  streets,  in  the  midst  of  which  he  hesitated 
and  doubted  incessantly,  being  more  perplexed  and  entangled 
in  this  medley  of  streets  than  he  would  have  been  even  in  the 
labyrinth  of  the  Hotel  des  Tournelles.  At  length  he  lost 
patience,  and  exclaimed  solemnly :  "  Cursed  be  cross  roads  ! 
'tis  the  devil  who  has  made  them  in  the  shape  of  his  pitch- 
fork!" 

This  exclamation  afforded  him  a  little  solace,  and  a  sort  of 
reddish  reflection  which  he  caught  sight  of  at  that  moment,  at 
the  extremity  of  a  long  and  narrow  lane,  completed  the  eleva- 
tion of  his  moral  tone.  "  God  be  praised ! "  said  he,  "  There 
it  is  yonder !  There  is  my  pallet  burning."  And  comparing 
himself  to  the  pilot  who  suffers  shipwreck  by  night,  "  Sah-e" 
he  added  piously,  "  safi-e,  mar  is  stella  !  " 

Did  he  address  this  fragment  of  litany  to  the  Holy  Virgin, 
or  to  the  pallet  ?  We  are  utterly  unable  to  say. 

He  had  taken  but  a  few  steps  in  the  long  street,  which 
sloped  downwards,  was  unpaved,  and  more  and  more  muddy 
and  steep,  when  he  noticed  a  very  singular  thing.  It  was 
not  deserted  ;  here  and  there  along  its  extent  crawled  certain 
vague  and  formless  masses,  all  directing  their  course  towards 
the  light  which  flickered  at  the  end  of  the  street,  like  those 
heavy  insects  which  drag  along  by  night,  from  blade  to  blade 
of  grass,  towards  the  shepherd's  fire. 

Nothing  renders  one  so  adventurous  as  not  being  able  to 
feel  the  place  where  one's  pocket  is  situated.  Gringoire  con- 
tinued to  advance,  and  had  soon  joined  that  one  of  the  forms 


THE  lUiOKEN  JUG.  85 

which  dragged  along  most  indolently,  behind  the  others.  On 
drawing  near,  he  perceived  that  it  was  nothing  else  than  a 
wretched  legless  cripple  in  a  bowl,  who  was  hopping  along  on 
his  two  hands  like  a  wounded  field-spider  which  has  but  two 
legs  left.  At  the  moment  when  he  passed  close  to  this  spe- 
cies of  spider  with  a  human  countenance,  it  raised  towards 
him  a  lamentable  voice:  "La  buona  mancia,  signor!  la  buona 
mancia  !  "  * 

"  Deuce  take  you/'  said  Gringoire,"  "  and  me  with  you,  if  I 
know  what  you  mean ! " 

And  he  passed  on. 

He  overtook  another  of  these  itinerant  masses,  and  ex- 
amined it.  It  was  an  impotent  man,  both  halt  and  crippled, 
and  halt  and  crippled  to  such  a  degree  that  the  complicated 
system  of  crutches  and  wooden  legs  which  sustained  him,  gave 
him  the  air  of  a  mason's  scaffolding  on  the  march.  Gringoire, 
who  liked  noble  and  classical  comparisons,  compared  him  in 
thought  to  the  living  tripod  of  Vulcan. 

This  living  tripod  saluted  him  as  he  passed,  but  stopping 
his  hat  on  a  level  with  Gringoire's  chin,  like  a  shaving  dish, 
while  he  shouted  in  the  latter's  ears  :  "  Senor  cabellero,  para 
comprar  un  pedaso  de  pan  !  "  f 

"  It  appears,"  said  Gringoire,  "that  this  one  can  also  talk  ; 
but  'tis  a  rude  language,  and  he  is  more  fortunate  than  I  if 
he  understands  it."  Then,  smiting  his  brow,  in  a  sudden 
transition  of  ideas:  "By  the  way,  what  the  deuce  did  they 
mean  this  morning  with  their  Esmeralda  ?  " 

He  was  minded  to  augment  his  pace,  but  for  the  third  time 
something  barred  his  way.  This  something  or,  rather,  some 
one  was  a  blind  man,  a  little  blind  fellow  with  a  bearded, 
Jewish  face,  who,  rowing  away  in  the  space  about  him  with  a 
stick,  and  towed  by  a  large  dog,  droned  through  his  nose  with 
a  Hungarian  accent :  "  Facitote  caritatem  !  " 

"  Well,  now,"  said  Gringoire,  "  here's  one  at  last  who  speaks 

a  Christian  tongue.     I  must  have  a  very  charitable  aspect, 

since  they  ask  alms  of  me  in  the  present  lean  condition  of  my 

purse.     My  friend,"  and  he  turned  towards  the  blind  man, 

*  Alms.          t  Give  me  the  means  to  buy  a  bit  of  bread,  sir. 


86  NOTRE-DAME. 

"  I  sold  my  last  shirt  last  week ;  that  is  to  say,  since  you 
understand  only  the  language  of  Cicero  :  Vendidi  hcbdomade 
nuper  transita  meant  ultimam  chemisam." 

That  said,  he  turned  his  back  upon  the  blind  man,  and  pur- 
sued his  way.  But  the  blind  man  began  to  increase  his  stride 
at  the  same  time ;  and,  behold !  the  cripple  and  the  legless 
man,  in  his  bowl,  came  up  on  their  side  in  great  haste,  and 
with  great  clamor  of  bowl  and  crutches,  upon  the  pavement. 
Then  all  three,  jostling  each  other  at  poor  Gringoire's  heels, 
began  to  sing  their  song  to  him,  — 

"  Caritatem  !  "  chanted  the  blind  man. 

"La  buona,  mancia!"  chanted  the  cripple  in  the  bowl. 

And  the  lame  man  took  up  the  musical  phrase  by  repeating : 
"  Un  pedaso  de  pan  !  " 

Gringoire  stopped  up  his  ears.  "  Oh,  tower  of  Babel !  "  he 
exclaimed. 

He  set  out  to  run.  The  blind  man  ran !  The  lame  man 
ran  !  The  cripple  in  the  bowl  ran ! 

And  then,  in  proportion  as  he  plunged  deeper  into  the 
street,  cripples  in  bowls,  blind  men  and  lame  men,  swarmed 
about  him,  and  men  with  one  arm,  and  with  one  eye,  and  the 
leprous  with  their  sores,  some  emerging  from  little  streets 
adjacent,  some  from  the  air-holes  of  cellars,  howling,  bellow- 
ing, yelping,  all  limping  and  halting,  all  flinging  themselves 
towards  the  light,  and  humped  up  in  the  mire,  like  snails  after 
a  shower. 

Gringoire,  still  followed  by  his  three  persecutors,  and  not 
knowing  very  well  what  was  to  become  of  him,  marched  along 
in  terror  among  them,  turning  out  for  the  lame,  stepping  over 
the  cripples  in  bowls,  with  his  feet  imbedded  in  that  ant-hill 
of  lame  men,  like  the  English  captain  who  got  caught  in  the 
quicksand  of  a  swarm  of  crabs. 

The  idea  occurred  to  him  of  making  an  effort  to  retrace  his 
steps.  But  it  was  too  late.  This  whole  legion  had  closed  in 
behind  him,  and  his  three  beggars  held  him  fast.  So  he  pro- 
ceeded, impelled  both  by  this  irresistible  flood,  by  fear,  and 
by  a  vertigo  which  converted  all  this  into  a  sort  of  horrible 
dream. 


THE  BROKEN  JUG.  87 

At  last  he  readied  the  end  of  the  street.  It  opened  upon 
an  immense  place,  where  a  thousand  scattered  lights  flick- 
ered  in  the  confused  mists  of  night.  Gringore  flew  thither, 
hoping  to  escape,  by  the  swiftness  of  his  legs,  from  the  three 
infirm  spectres  who  had  clutched  him. 

"  Onde  vas,  homlre?"  (Where  are  you  going,  my  man?) 
cried  the  cripple,  flinging  away  his  crutches,  and  running  after 
him  with  the  best  legs  that  ever  traced  a  geometrical  step  upon 
the  pavements  of  Paris. 

In  the  meantime  the  legless  man,  erect  upon  his  feet, 
crowned  Gringoire  with  his  heavy  iron  bowl,  and  the  blind 
man  glared  in  his  face  with  flaming  eyes! 

"  Where  am  I  ?  "  said  the  terrified  poet. 

"  In  the  Court  of  Miracles,"  replied  a  fourth  spectre,  who 
had  accosted  them. 

"  Upon  my  soul,"  resumed  Gringoire,  "  I  certainly  do 
behold  the  blind  who  see,  and  the  lame  who  walk,  but  where 
is  the  Saviour  ?  " 

They  replied  by  a  burst  of  sinister  laughter. 

The  poor  poet  cast  his  eyes  about  him.  It  was,  in  truth, 
that  redoubtable  Cour  des  Miracles,  whither  an  honest  man 
had  never  penetrated  at  such  an  hour ;  the  magic  circle  where 
the  officers  of  the  Chfitelet  and  the  sergeants  of  the  provost- 
ship,  who  ventured  thither,  disappeared  in  morsels ;  a  city  of 
thieves,  a  hideous  wart  on  the  face  of  Paris ;  a  sewer,  from 
which  escaped  every  morning,  and  whither  returned  every 
night  to  crouch,  that  stream  of  vices,  of  mendicancy  and 
vagabondage  which  always  overflows  in  the  streets  of  capi- 
tals ;  a  monstrous  hive,  to  which  returned  at  nightfall,  with 
their  booty,  all  the  drones  of  the  social  order ;  a  lying  hospi- 
tal where  the  bohemian,  the  disfrocked  monk,  the  ruined 
scholar,  the  ne'er-do-wells  of  all  nations,  Spaniards,  Italians, 
Germans, — of  all  religions,  Jews,  Christians,  Mahometans, 
idolaters,  covered  with  painted  sores,  beggars  by  day,  were 
transformed  by  night  into  brigands ;  an  immense  dressing- 
room,  in  a  word,  where,  at  that  epoch,  the  actors  of  that 
eternal  comedy,  which  theft,  prostitution,  and  murder  play 
upon  the  pavements  of  Paris,  dressed  and  undressed. 


88  NOTRE-DAME. 

It  was  a  vast  place,  irregular  and  badly  paved,  like  all  the 
squares  of  Paris  at  that  date.  Fires,  around  which  swarmed 
strange  groups,  blazed  here  and  there.  Every  one  Avas  going, 
coming,  and  shouting.  Shrill  laughter  was  to  be  heard,  the 
wailing  of  children,  the  voices  of  women.  The  hands  and 
heads  of  this  throng,  black  against  the  luminous  background, 
outlined  against  it  a  thousand  eccentric  gestures.  At  times, 
upon  the  ground,  where  trembled  the  light  of  the  fires, 
mingled  with  large,  indefinite  shadows,  one  could  behold  a  dog 
passing,  which  resembled  a  man,  a  man  who  resembled  a  dog. 
The  limits  of  races  and  species  seemed  effaced  in  this  city,  as 
in  a  pandemonium.  Men,  women,  beasts,  age,  sex,  health, 
maladies,  all  seemed  to  be  in  common  among  these  people  ; 
all  went  together,  they  mingled,  confounded,  superposed ; 
each  one  there  participated  in  all. 

The  poor  and  flickering  flames  of  the  fire  permitted  Grin- 
goire  to  distinguish,  amid  his  trouble,  all  around  the  immense 
place,  a  hideous  frame  of  ancient  houses,  whose  wormeaten, 
shrivelled,  stunted  fa9ades,  each  pierced  with  one  or  two 
lighted  attic  windows,  seemed  to  him,  in  the  darkness,  like 
enormous  heads  of  old  women,  ranged  in  a  circle,  monstrous 
and  crabbed,  winking  as  they  looked  on  at  the  Witches'  Sab- 
bath. 

It  was  like  a  new  world,  unknown,  unheard  of,  misshapen, 
creeping,  swarming,  fantastic. 

Gringoire,  more  and  more  terrified,  clutched  by  the  three 
beggars  as  by  three  pairs  of  tongs,  dazed  by  a  throng  of  other 
faces  which  frothed  and  yelped  around  him,  unhappy  Grin- 
goire endeavored  to  summon  his  presence  of  mind,  in  order 
to  recall  whether  it  was  a  Saturday.  But  his  efforts  were 
vain ;  the  thread  of  his  memory  and  of  his  thought  was 
broken;  and,  doubting  everything,  wavering  between  what  he 
saw  and  what  he  felt,  he  put  to  himself  this  unanswerable 
question,  — 

"  If  I  exist,  does  this  exist  ?  if  this  exists,  do  I  exist  ?  " 

At  that  moment,  a  distinct  cry  arose  in  the  buzzing  throng 
which  surrounded  him,  "  Let's  take  him  to  the  king !  let's 
take  him  to  the  king ! " 


THE  BROKEN  JUG.  g9 

"  Holy  Virgin  !  "  murmured  Gringoire,  "  the  king  here 
must  be  a  ram  ?  " 

"  To  the  king  !  to  the  king  !  "  repeated  all  voices. 

They  dragged  him  off.  Each  vied  with  the  other  in  laying 
his  claws  upon  him.  But  the  three  beggars  did  not  loose  their 
hold  and  tore  him  from  the  rest,  howling,  "  He  belongs  to 
us?" 

The  poet's  already  sickly  doublet  yielded  its  last  sigh  in 
this  struggle. 

While  traversing  the  horrible  place,  his  vertigo  vanished. 
After  taking  a  few  steps,  the  sentiment  of  reality  returned  to 
him.  He  began  to  become  accustomed  to  the  atmosphere  of 
the  place.  At  the  first  moment  there  had  arisen  from  his 
poet's  head,  or,  simply  and  prosaically,  from  his  empty 
stomach,  a  mist,  a  vapor,  so  to  speak,  which,  spreading 
between  objects  and  himself,  permitted  him  to  catch  a  glimpse 
of  them  only  in  the  incoherent  fog  of  nightmare,  —  in  those 
shadows  of  dreams  which  distort  every  outline,  agglomerating 
objects  into  unwieldy  groups,  dilating  things  into  chimeras, 
and  men  into  phantoms.  Little  by  little,  this  hallucination 
was  succeeded  by  a  less  bewildered  and  exaggerating  view. 
Reality  made  its  way  to  the  light  around  him,  struck  his  eyes, 
struck  his  feet,  and  demolished,  bit  by  bit,  all  that  frightful 
poetry  with  which  he  had,  at  first,  believed  himself  to  be 
surrounded.  He  was  forced  to  perceive  that  he  was  not 
walking  in  the  Styx,  but  in  mud,  that  he  was  elbowed  not  by 
demons,  but  by  thieves ;  that  it  was  not  his  soul  which  was 
in  question,  but  his  life  (since  he  lacked  that  precious  con- 
ciliator, which  places  itself  so  effectually  between  the  bandit 
and  the  honest  man  —  a  purse).  In  short,  on  examining  the 
orgy  more  closely,  and  with  more  coolness,  he  fell  from  the 
witches'  sabbath  to  the  dram-shop. 

The  Cour  des  Miracles  was,  in  fact,  merely  a  dram-shop ; 
but  a  brigand's  dram-shop,  reddened  quite  as  much  with  blood 
as  with  wine. 

The  spectacle  which  presented  itself  to  his  eyes,  when  his 
ragged  escort  finally  deposited  him  at  the  end  of  his  trip,  was 
not  fitted  to  bear  him  back  to  poetry,  even  to  the  poetry  of 


90  NOTRE-DAME. 

hell.  It  was  more  than  ever  the  prosaic  and  brutal  reality  of 
the  tavern.  Were  we  not  in  the  fifteenth  century,  we  would 
say  that  Gringoire  had  descended  from  Michael  Angelo  to 

Callot. 

Around  a  great  fire  which  burned  on  a  large,  circular  flag- 
stone, the  flames  of  which  had  heated  red-hot  the  legs  of  a 
tripod,  which  was  empty  for  the  moment,  some  wormeaten 
tables  were  placed,  here  and  there,  haphazard,  no  lackey  of  a 
geometrical  turn  having  deigned  to  adjust  their  parallelism, 
or  to  see  to  it  that  they  did  not  make  too  unusual  angles. 
Upon  these  tables  gleamed  several  dripping  pots  of  wine  and 
beer,  and  round  these  pots  were  grouped  many  bacchic  vis- 
ages, purple  with  the  fire  and  the  wine.  There  was  a  man 
with  a  huge  belly  and  a  jovial  face,  noisily  kissing  a  woman 
of  the  town,  thickset  and  brawny.  There  was  a  sort  of  sham 
soldier,  a  "  naquois,"  as  the  slang  expression  runs,  who  was 
whistling  as  he  undid  the  bandages  from  his  fictitious  wound, 
and  removing  the  numbness  from  his  sound  and  vigorous 
knee,  which  had  been  swathed  since  morning  in  a  thousand 
ligatures.  On  the  other  hand,  there  was  a  wretched  fellow, 
preparing  with  celandine  and  beef's  blood,  his  "  leg  of  God," 
for  the  next  day.  Two  tables  further  on,  a  palmer,  with  his 
pilgrim's  costume  complete,  was  practising  the  lament  of  the 
Holy  Queen,  not  forgetting  the  drone  and  the  nasal  drawl. 
Further  on,  a  young  scamp  was  taking  a  lesson  in  epilepsy 
from  an  old  pretender,  who  was  instructing  him  in  the  art  of 
foaming  at  the  mouth,  by  chewing  a  morsel  of  soap.  Beside 
him,  a  man  with  the  dropsy  was  getting  rid  of  his  swelling, 
and  making  four  or  five  female  thieves,  who  were  disputing 
at  the  same  table,  over  a  child  who  had  been  stolen  that  even- 
ing, hold  their  noses.  All  circumstances  which,  two  centuries 
later,  "seemed  so  ridiculous  to  the  court,"  as  Sauval  s;iys. 
"  that  they  served  as  a  pastime  to  the  king,  and  as  an  intro- 
duction to  the  royal  ballet  of  Night,  divided  into  four  parts 
and  danced  on  the  theatre  of  the  Petit-Bourbon."  "  Never," 
adds  an  eye  witness  of  1653,  '-'have  the  sudden  metamor- 
phoses of  the  Court  of  Miracles  been  more  happily  presented. 
Benserade  prepared  us  for  it  by  some  very  gallant  verses." 


THE  BROKEN  JUG.  91 

Loud  laughter  everywhere,  and  obscene  songs.  Each  one 
held  his  own  course,  carping  and  swearing,  without  listening 
to  his  neighbor.  Pots  clinked,  and  quarrels  .sprang  up  at 
the  shock  of  the  pots,  and  the  broken  pots  made  rents  in  the 
rags. 

A  big  dog,  seated  on  his  tail,  gazed  at  the  fire.  Some  chil- 
dren were  mingled  in  this  orgy.  The  stolen  child  wept  and 
cried.  Another,  a  big  boy  four  years  of  age,  seated  with 
legs  dangling,  upon  a  bench  that  was  too  high  for  him,  before 
a  table  that  reached  to  his  chin,  and  uttering  not  a  word.  A 
third,  gravely  spreading  out  upon  the  table  with  his  finger, 
the  melted  tallow  which  dripped  from  a  candle.  Last  of  all, 
a  little  fellow  crouching  in  the  mud,  almost  lost  in  a  caldron, 
which  he  was  scraping  with  a  tile,  and  from  which  he  was 
evoking  a  sound  that  would  have  made  Stradivarius  swoon. 

Xear  the  fire  was  a  hogshead,  and  on  the  hogshead  a  beggar. 
This  was  the  king  on  his  throne. 

The  three  who  had  Gringoire  in  their  clutches  led  him  in 
front  of  this  hogshead,  and  the  entire  bacchanal  rout  fell 
silent  for  a  moment,  with  the  exception  of  the  cauldron 
inhabited  by  the  child. 

Gringoire  dared  neither  breathe  nor  raise  his  eyes. 

"  Hombre,  quita  tu  sombrero ! "  said  one  of  the  three 
knaves,  in  whose  grasp  he  was,  and,  before  he  had  compre- 
hended the  meaning,  the  other  had  snatched  his  hat  —  a 
wretched  headgear,  it  is  true,  but  still  good  on  a  sunny  day  or 
when  there  was  but  little  ram.  Gringoire  sighed. 

Meanwhile  the  king  addressed  him,  from  the  summit  of  his 
cask,  — 

"  Who  is  this  rogue  ?  " 

Gringoire  shuddered.  That  voice,  although  accentuated  by 
menace,  recalled  to  him  another  voice,  which,  that  very  morn- 
ing, had  dealt  the  deathblow  to  his  mystery,  by  drawling, 
nasally,  in  the  midst  of  the  audience,  "  Charity,  please ! " 
He  raised  his  head.  It  was  indeed  Clopiii  Trouillefou. 

Clopin  Trouillefou,  arrayed  in  his  royal  insignia,  wore 
neither  one  rag  more  nor  one  rag  less.  The  sore  upon  his 
arm  had  already  disappeared.  He  held  in  his  hand  one  of 


92  NOTRE-DAME. 

those  whips  made  of  thongs  of  white  leather,  which  police 
sergeants  then  used  to  repress  the  crowd,  and  which  were 
called  boullayes.  On  his  head  he  wore  a  sort  of  headgear, 
bound  round  and  closed  at  the  top.  But  it  was  difficult  to 
make  out  whether  it  was  a  child's  cap  or  a  king's  crown,  the 
two  things  bore  so  strong  a  resemblance  to  each  other. 

M  ran  while  Gringoire,  without  knowing  why,  had  regained 
some  hope,  on  recognizing  in  the  King  of  the  Cour  des  Mira- 
cles his  accursed  mendicant  of  the  Grand  Hall. 

"  Master,"  stammered  he  ;  "  monseigneur  —  sire  —  how 
ought  I  to  address  you  ?  "  he  said  at  length,  having  reached 
the  culminating  point  of  his  crescendo,  and  knowing  neither 
how  to  mount  higher,  nor  to  descend  again. 

"Monseigneur,  his  majesty,  or  comrade,  call  me  what  you 
please.  But  make  haste.  What  have  you  to  say  in  your  own 
defence  ? " 

" In  your  own  defence?"  thought  Gringoire,  "that  dis- 
pleases me."  He  resumed,  stuttering,  "I  am  he,  who  this 
morning — " 

"By  the  devil's  claws!"  interrupted  Clopin,  "your  name. 
knave,  and  nothing  more.  Listen.  You  are  in  the  presence 
of  three  powerful  sovereigns :  myself,  Clopin  Trouillefou, 
King  of  Thunes,  successor  to  the  Grand  Coesre,  supreme 
suzerain  of  the  Realm  of  Argot ;  Mathias  Hunyadi  Spicali. 
Duke  of  Egypt  and  of  Bohemia,  the  old  yellow  fellow  whom 
you  see  yonder,  with  a  dish  clout  round  his  head ;  Guillaume 
Rousseau,  Emperor  of  Galilee,  that  fat  fellow  who  is  not  lis- 
tening to  us  but  caressing  a  wench.  We  are  your  judges. 
You  have  entered  the  Kingdom  of  Argot,  without  being  an 
argotier ;  you  have  violated  the  privileges  of  our  city.  You 
must  be  punished  unless  you  are  a  capon,  a  franc-mitou  or  a 
rifu.Je  ;  that  is  to  say,  in  the  slang  of  honest  folks,  —  a  thief, 
a  beggar,  or  a  vagabond.  Are  you  anything  of  that  sort? 
Justify  yourself ;  announce  your  titles." 

"  Alas  ! "  said  Gringoire,  "  I  have  not  that  honor.  I  am  the 
author  —  " 

"That  is  sufficient,"  resumed  Trouillefou,  without  permit- 
ting him  to  finish.  "You  are  going  to  be  hanged.  'Tis  a 


THE  BROKEN  JUG.  93 

very  simple  matter,  gentlemen  and  honest  bourgeois !  as  you 
treat  our  people  in  your  abode,  so  we  treat  you  in  ours !  The 
law  which  you  apply  to  vagabonds,  vagabonds  apply  to  you. 
'Tis  your  fault  if  it  is  harsh.  One  really  must  behold  the 
grimace  of  an  honest  man  above  the  hempen  collar  now  and 
then ;  that  renders  the  thing  honorable.  Come,  friend,  divide 
your  rags  gayly  among  these  damsels.  I  am  going  to  have 
you  hanged  to  amuse  the  vagabonds,  and  you  are  to  give  them 
your  purse  to  drink  your  health.  If  you  have  any  mummery 
to  go  through  with,  there's  a  very  good  God  the  Father  in  that 
mortar  yonder,  in  stone,  which  we  stole  from  Saint-Pierre  aux 
Boeufs.  You  have  four  minutes  in  which  to  fling  your  soul  at 
his  head." 

The  harangue  was  formidable. 

"  Well  said,  upon  my  soul !  Clopin  Trouillefou  preaches 
like  the  Holy  Father  the  Pope ! "  exclaimed  the  Emperor  of 
Galilee,  smashing  his  pot  in  order  to  prop  up  his  table. 

"  ^lesseigneurs,  emperors,  and  kings,"  said  Gringoire  coolly 
(for  I  know  not  how,  firmness  had  returned  to  him,  and  he 
spoke  with  resolution),  "don't  think  of  such  a  thing;  my 
name  is  Pierre  Gringoire.  I  am  the  poet  whose  morality  was 
presented  this  morning  in  the  grand  hall  of  the  Courts." 

"  Ah !  so  it  was  you,  master ! "  said  Clopin.  "  I  was  there, 
par  la,  tete  Dieu !  Well !  comrade,  is  that  any  reason,  be- 
cause you  bored  us  to  death  this  morning,  that  you  should  not 
be  hung  this  evening  ?  " 

"  I  shall  find  difficulty  in  getting  out  of  it,"  said  Gringoire 
to  himself.  Nevertheless,  he  made  one  more  effort :  "  I  don't 
see  why  poets  are  not  classed  with  vagabonds,"  said  he. 
"  Vagabond,  ^Esopus  certainly  Avas ;  Homerus  was  a  beggar ; 
Mercurius  was  a  thief  —  " 

Clopin  interrupted  him :  "  I  believe  that  you  are  trying  to 
blarney  us  with  your  jargon.  Zounds !  let  yourself  be  hung, 
and  don't  kick  up  such  a  row  over  it ! " 

"Pardon  me,  monseigneur,  the  King  of  Thunes,"  replied 
Gringoire,  disputing  the  ground  foot  by  foot.  "It  is  worth 
trouble  —  One  moment !  —  Listen  to  me  —  You  are  not  going 
to  condemn  me  without  having:  heard  me  "  — 


94  NOTRE-DAME. 

His  unlucky  voice  was,  in  fact,  drowned  in  the  uproar  which 
rose  around  him.  The  little  boy  scraped  away  at  his  cauldron 
with  more  spirit  than  ever ;  and,  to  crown  all,  an  old  woman 
had  just  placed  on  the  tripod  a  frying-pan  of  grease,  which 
hissed  away  on  the  fire  with  a  noise  similar  to  the  cry  of  a 
troop  of  children  in  pursuit  of  a  masker. 

In  the  meantime,  Clopin  Trouillefou  appeared  to  hold  a 
momentary  conference  with  the  Duke  of  Egypt,  and  the 
Emperor  of  Galilee,  who  was  completely  drunk.  Then  he 
shouted  shrilly :  "  Silence ! "  and,  as  the  cauldron  and  the 
frying-pan  did  not  heed  him,  and  continued  their  duet,  he 
jumped  down  from  his  hogshead,  gave  a  kick  to  the  boiler, 
which  rolled  ten  paces  away  bearing  the  child  with  it,  a  kick 
to  the  frying-pan,  which  upset  in  the  lire  with  all  its  grease, 
and  gravely  remounted  his  throne,  without  troubling  himself 
about  the  stifled  tears  of  the  child,  or  the  grumbling  of  the 
old  woman,  whose  supper  was  wasting  away  in  a  fine  white 
flame. 

Trouillefou  made  a  sign,  and  the  duke,  the  emperor,  and 
the  passed  masters  of  pickpockets,  and  the  isolated  robbers, 
came  and  ranged  themselves  around  him  in  a  horseshoe,  of 
which  Gringoire,  still  roughly  held  by  the  body,  formed  the 
centre.  It  was  a  semicircle  of  rags,  tatters,  tinsel,  pitchforks, 
axes,  legs  staggering  with  intoxication,  huge,  bare  arms,  faces 
sordid,  dull,  and  stupid.  In  the  midst  of  this  Round  Table  of 
beggary,  Clopin  Trouillefou, — as  the  doge  of  this  senate,  as 
the  king  of  this  peerage,  as  the  pope  of  this  conclave,  — 
dominated ;  first  by  virtue  of  the  height  of  his  hogshead,  and 
next  by  virtue  of  an  indescribable,  haughty,  fierce,  and  formid- 
able air,  which  caused  his  eyes  to  flash,  and  corrected  in  his 
savage  profile  the  bestial  type  of  the  race  of  vagabonds.  One 
would  have  pronounced  him  a  boar  amid  a  herd  of  swine. 

"  Listen,"  said  he  to  Gringoire,  fondling  his  misshapen  chin 
with  his  horny  hand  ;  "  I  don't  see  why  you  should  not  be 
hung.  It  is  true  that  it  appears  to  be  repugnant  to  you ;  and 
it  is  very  natural,  for  you  bourgeois  are  not  accustomed  to  it. 
You  form  for  yourselves  a  great  idea  of  the  thing.  After  all, 
we  don't  wish  you  any  harm.  Here  is  a  means  of  extricating 


THE  BROKEN  JUG.  95 

yourself  from  your  predicament  for  the  moment.     Will  you 
become  one  of  us  ?  " 

The  reader  can  judge  of  the  effect  which  this  proposition 
produced  upon  Gringoire,  who  beheld  life  slipping  away  from 
him,  and  who  was  beginning  to  lose  his  hold  upon  it.  He 
clutched  at  it  again  with  energy. 

"  Certainly  I  will,  and  right  heartily,"  said  he. 

"Do  you  consent,"  resumed  Clopin,  "to  enroll  yourself 
among  the  people  of  the  knife  ?  " 

"  Of  the  knife,  precisely,"  responded  Gringoire. 

"You  recognize  yourself  as  a  member  of  the  free  bour- 
geoisie ?  *  added  the  King  of  Thunes. 

" Of  the  free  bourgeoisie" 

"  Subject  of  the  Kingdom  of  Argot  ?  n 

"Of  the  Kingdom  of  Argot."  f 

"  A  vagabond  ?  " 

"A  vagabond." 

"  In  your  soul  ?  " 

"In  my  soul." 

"I  must  call  your  attention  to  the  fact,"  continued  the 
king,  "  that  you  will  be  hung  all  the  same." 

"The  devil!  "  said  the  poet. 

"Only,"  continued  Clopin  imperturbably,  "you  will  be  hung 
later  on,  with  more  ceremony,  at  the  expense  of  the  good  city 
of  Paris,  on  a  handsome  stone  gibbet,  and  by  honest  men. 
That  is  a  consolation." 

"  Just  so,"  responded  Gringoire. 

"There  are  other  advantages.  In  your  quality  of  a  high- 
toned  sharper,  you  will  not  have  to  pay  the  taxes  on  mud,  or 
the  poor,  or  lanterns,  to  which  the  bourgeois  of  Paris  are 
subject." 

"So  be  it,"  said  the  poet.  "I  agree.  I  am  a  vagabond,  a 
thief,  a  sharper,  a  man  of  the  knife,  anything  you  please ;  and 
I  am  all  that  already,  monsieur,  King  of  Thunes,  for  I  am  a 
philosopher;  et  om.nia  in philosophia,  omnes  in philosopho  con- 
tinentur,  —  all  things  are  contained  in  philosophy,  all  men  in 
the  philosopher,  as  you  know." 

*  A  high-toned  sharper.  t  Thieves. 


96  NOTRE-DAME. 

The  King  of  Thunes  scowled. 

"  What  do  you  take  me  for,  my  friend  ?  What  Hungarian 
Jew  patter  are  you  jabbering  at  us  ?  I  don't  know  Hebrew. 
One  isn't  a  Jew  because  one  is  a  bandit.  I  don't  even  steal 
any  longer.  I'm  above  that;  I  kill.  Cut-throat,  yes;  cut- 
purse,  no." 

Gringoire  tried  to  slip  in  some  excuse  between  these  curt 
words,  which  wrath  rendered  more  and  more  jerky. 

"  I  ask  your  pardon,  monseigneur.  It  is  not  Hebrew ;  'tis 
Latin." 

"  I  tell  you,"  resumed  Clopin  angrily,  "  that  I'm  not  a  Jew, 
and  that  I'll  have  you  hung,  belly  of  the  synagogue,  like  that 
little  shopkeeper  of  Judea,  who  is  by  your  side,  and  Avhom  I 
entertain  strong  hopes  of  seeing  nailed  to  a  counter  one  of 
these  days,  like  the  counterfeit  coin  that  he  is ! " 

So  saying,  he  pointed  his  finger  at  the  little,  bearded  Hun- 
garian Jew  who  had  accosted  Gringoire  with  his  facitote  cari- 
tatem,  and  who,  understanding  no  other  language  beheld  with 
surprise  the  King  of  Thunes's  ill-humor  overflow  upon  him. 

At  length  Monsieur  Clopin  calmed  down. 

"  So  you  will  be  a  vagabond,  you  knave  ?  "  he  said  to  our 
poet. 

"  Of  course,"  replied  the  poet. 

"Willing  is  not  all,"  said  the  surly  Clopin;  "good  will 
doesn't  put  one  onion  the  more  into  the  soup,  and  'tis  good 
for  nothing  except  to  go  to  Paradise  with ;  now,  Paradise  and 
the  thieves'  band  are  two  different  things.  In  order  to  be 
received  among  the  thieves,*  you  must  prove  that  you  are 
good  for  something,  and  for  that  purpose,  you  must  search  the 
manikin." 

"  I'll  search  anything  you  like,"  said  Gringoire. 

Clopin  made  a  sign.  Several  thieves  detached  themselves 
from  the  circle,  and  returned  a  moment  later.  They  brought 
two  thick  posts,  terminated  at  their  lower  extremities  in 
spreading  timber  supports,  which  made  them  stand  readily 
upon  the  ground;  to  the  upper  extremity  of  the  two  posts 
they  fitted  a  cross-beam,  and  the  whole  constituted  a  very 

*  L'argot. 


THE  BROKEN  JUG.  97 

pretty  portable  gibbet,  which  Gringoire  had  the  satisfaction  of 
beholding  rise  before  him,  in  a  twinkling.  Nothing  was  lacking, 
not  even  the  rope,  which  swung  gracefully  over  the  cross-beam. 

"  What  are  they  going  to  do  ?  "  Gringoire  asked  himself 
with  some  uneasiness.  A  sound  of  bells,  which  he  heard  at 
that  moment,  put  an  end  to  his  anxiety ;  it  was  a  stuffed 
manikin,  which  the  vagabonds  were  suspending  by  the  neck 
from  the  rope,  a  sort  of  scarecrow  dressed  in  red,  and  so 
hung  with  mule-bells  and  larger  bells,  that  one  might  have 
tricked  out  thirty  Castilian  mules  with  them.  These  thousand 
tiny  bells  quivered  for  some  time  with  the  vibration  of  the 
rope,  then  gradually  died  away,  and  finally  became  silent 
when  the  manikin  had  been  brought  into  a  state  of  immobility 
by  that  law  of  the  pendulum  which  has  dethroned  the  water 
clock  and  the  hour-glass. 

Then  Clopin,  pointing  out  to  Gringoire  a  rickety  old  stool 
placed  beneath  the  manikin,  — 

"  Climb  up  there." 

"  Death  of  the  devil !  "  objected  Gringoire ;  "  I  shall  break 
my  neck.  Your  stool  limps  like  one  of  Martial's  distiches ; 
it  has  one  hexameter  leg  and  one  pentameter  leg." 

"  Climb ! "  repeated  Clopin. 

Gringoire  mounted  the  stpol,  and  succeeded,  not  without 
some  oscillations  of  head  and  arms,  in  regaining  his  centre  of 
gravity. 

"Now,"  went  on  the  King  of  Thunes,  "twist  your  right 
foot  round  your  left  leg,  and  rise  on  the  tip  of  your  left  foot." 

'•  Monseigneur,"  said  Gringoire,  "  so  you  absolutely  insist 
on  my  breaking  some  one  of  my  limbs  ?  " 

Clopin  tossed  his  head. 

"  Hark  ye,  my  friend,  you  talk  too  much.  Here's  the  gist 
of  the  matter  in  two  words :  you  are  to  rise  on  tiptoe,  as  I 
tell  you  ;  in  that  way  you  will  be  able  to  reach  the  pocket  of 
the  manikin,  you  will  rummage  it,  you  will  pull  out  the  purse 
that  is  there,  —  and  if  you  do  all  this  without  our  hearing 
the  sound  of  a  bell,  all  is  well :  you  shall  be  a  vagabond. 
All  we  shall  then  have  to  do,  will  be  to  thrash  you  soundly 
for  the  space  of  a  week." 


98  NOTRE-DAME. 

"  Ventre-Dieu!  I  will  be  careful,"  said  Gringoire.  "And 
suppose  I  do  make  the  bells  sound  ?  " 

"  Then  you  will  be  hanged.     Do  you  understand  ?  " 

"  I  don't  understand  at  all,"  replied  Gringoire. 

"Listen,  once  more.  You  are  to  search  the  manikin,  and 
take  away  its  purse ;  if  a  single  bell  stirs  during  the  opera- 
tion, you  will  be  hung.  Do  you  understand  that  ?  " 

"  Good,"  said  Gringoire ;  "  I  understand  that.     And  then  ?  " 

"  If  you  succeed  in  removing  the  purse  without  our  hearing 
the  bells,  you  are  a  vagabond,  and  you  will  be  thrashed  for 
eight  consecutive  days.  You  understand  now,  no  doubt  ?  " 

"  No,  monseigneur ;  I  no  longer  understand.  Where  is  the  ad- 
advantage  to  me  ?  hanged  in  one  case,  cudgelled  in  the  other  ?  " 

"  And  a  vagabond,"  resumed  Clopin,  "  and  a  vagabond ;  is 
that  nothing  ?  It  is  for  your  interest  that  we  should  beat 
you,  in  order  to  harden  you  to  blows." 

"  Many  thanks,"  replied  the  poet. 

"Come,  make  haste,"  said  the  king,  stamping  upon  his 
cask,  which  resounded  like  a  huge  drum !  Search  the  mani- 
kin, and  let  there  be  an  end  to  this  !  I  warn  you  for  the  last 
time,  that  if  I  hear  a  single  bell,  you  will  take  the  place  of 
the  manikin." 

The  band  of  thieves  applauded  Clopin's  words,  and  arranged 
themselves  in  a  circle  round  the  gibbet,  with  a  laugh  so  piti- 
less that  Gringoire  perceived  that  he  amused  them  too  much 
not  to  have  everything  to  fear  from  them.  No  hope  was 
left  for  him,  accordingly,  unless  it  were  the  slight  chance 
of  succeeding  in  the  formidable  operation  which  was  imposed 
upon  him ;  he  decided  to  risk  it,  but  it  was  not  without  first 
having  addressed  a  fervent  prayer  to  the  manikin  he  was 
about  to  plunder,  and  who  would  have  been  easier  to  move 
to  pity  than  the  vagabonds.  These  myriad  bells,  with  their 
little  copper  tongues,  seemed  to  him  like  the  mouths  of  so 
many  asps,  open  and  ready  to  sting  and  to  hiss. 

"  Oh ! "  he  said,  in  a  very  low  voice,  "  is  it  possible  that  my 
life  depends  on  the  slightest  vibration  of  the  least  of  these 
bells  ?  Oh !  "  he  added,  with  clasped  hands,  "  bells,  do  not 
ring,  hand-bells  do  not  clang,  mule-bells  do  not  quiver ! " 


THE  BROKEN  JUG.  99 

He  made  one  more  attempt  upon  Trouillefou. 

"  And  if  there  should  come  a  gust  of  wind  ?  " 

"  You  will  be  hanged,"  replied  the  other,  without  hesitation. 

Perceiving  that  no  respite,  nor  reprieve,  nor  subterfuge  was 
possible,  he  bravely  decided  upon  his  course  of  action;  he 
wound  his  right  foot  round  his  left  leg,  raised  himself  on  his 
left  foot,  and  stretched  out  his  arm :  but  at  the  moment 
when  his  hand  touched  the  manikin,  his  body,  which  was  now 
supported  upon  one  leg  only,  wavered  on  the  stool  which  had 
but  three ;  he  made  an  involuntary  effort  to  support  himself 
by  the  manikin,  lost  his  balance,  and  fell  heavily  to  the 
ground,  deafened  by  the  fatal  vibration  of  the  thousand  bells 
of  the  manikin,  which,  yielding  to  the  impulse  imparted  by 
his  hand,  described  first  a  rotary  motion,  and  then  swayed 
majestically  between  the  two  posts. 

"  Malediction  ! "  he  cried  as  he  fell,  and  remained  as  though 
dead,  with  his  face  to  the  earth. 

Meanwhile,  he  heard  the  dreadful  peal  above  his  head,  the 
diabolical  laughter  of  the  vagabonds,  and  the  voice  of  Trouil- 
lefou saying,  — 

"Pick  me  up  that  knave,  and  hang  him  without  ceremony." 

He  rose.  They  had  already  detached  the  manikin  to  make 
room  for  him. 

The  thieves  made  him  mount  the  stool,  Clopin  came  to  him, 
passed  the  rope  about  his  neck,  and,  tapping  him  on  the 
shoulder,  — 

"Adieu,  my  friend.  You  can't  escape  now,  even  if  you 
digested  with  the  pope's  guts." 

The  word  "  Mercy  ! "  died  away  upon  Gringoire's  lips.  He 
cast  his  eyes  about  him ;  but  there  was  no  hope :  all  were 
laughing. 

"Bellevigne  de  PEtoile,"  said  the  King  of  Thunes  to  an 
enormous  vagabond,  who  stepped  out  from  the  ranks,  "  climb 
upon  the  cross  beam." 

Bellevigne  de  PEtoile  nimbly  mounted  the  transverse  beam, 
and  in  another  minute,  Gringoire,  on  raising  his  eyes,  beheld 
him,  with  terror,  seated  upon  the  beam  above  his  head. 

"  Now,"  resumed  Clopin  Trouillefou,  "  as  soon  as  I  clap  my 


1 00  NOTRE-DA  ME. 

hands,  you,  Andry  the  Red,  will  fling  the  stool  to  the  ground 
with  a  blow  of  your  knee ;  you,  Franqois  Chante-Prune,  will 
cling  to  the  feet  of  the  rascal ;  and  you,  Bellevigne,  will  fling 
yourself  on  his  shoulders;  and  all  three  at  once,  do  you 
hear?" 

Gringoire  shuddered. 

"Are  you  ready?"  said  Clopin  Trouillefou  to  the  three 
thieves,  who  held  themselves  in  readiness  to  fall  upon  Grin- 
goire. A  moment  of  horrible  suspense  ensued  for  the  poor 
victim,  during  which  Clopin  tranquilly  thrust  into  the  fire 
with  the  tip  of  his  foot,  some  bits  of  vine  shoots  which  the 
flame  had  not  caught.  "  Are  you  ready  ?  "  he  repeated,  and 
opened  his  hands  to  clap.  One  second  more  and  all  would 
have  been  over. 

But  he  paused,  as  though  struck  by  a  sudden  thought. 

" One  moment ! "  said  he ;  "I  forgot !  It  is  our  custom  not 
to  hang  a  man  without  inquiring  whether  there  is  any  woman 
who  wants  him.  Comrade,  this  is  your  last  resource.  You 
must  wed  either  a  female  vagabond  or  the  noose." 

This  law  of  the  vagabonds,  singular  as  it  may  strike  the 
reader,  remains  to-day  written  out  at  length,  in  ancient  Eng- 
lish legislation.  (See  Burington's  Observations.} 

Gringoire  breathed  again.  This  was  the  second  time  that 
he  had  returned  to  life  within  an  hour.  So  he  did  not  dare 
to  trust  to  it  too  implicitly. 

"  Hola ! "  cried  Clopin,  mounted  once  more  upon  his  cask, 
"hola!  women,  females,  is  there  among  you,  from  the  sor- 
ceress to  her  cat,  a  wench  who  wants  this  rascal  ?  Hola,  Co- 
lette la  Charonne !  Elisabeth  Trouvain !  Simone  Jodouyne  ! 
Marie  Piedebou !  Thonne  la  Longue!  Berarde  Fanouel!  Mi- 
chelle Genaille  !  Claude  Eonge-oreille  !  Mathurine  Girorou  !  — 
Hola!  Isabeau-la-Thierrye !  Come  and  see!  A  man  for  noth- 
ing !  Who  wants  him  ?  " 

Gringoire,  no  doubt,  was  not  very  appetizing  in  this  misera- 
ble condition.  The  female  vagabonds  did  not  seem  to  be 
much  affected  by  the  proposition.  The  unhappy  wretch 
heard  them  answer :  "  No !  no !  hang  him ;  there'll  be  the  more 
fun  for  us  all ! " 


THE  BROKEN  JUG. 

Nevertheless,  three  emerged  from  the  throng  and  came  to 
smell  of  him.  The  first  was  a  big  wench',  with  a  square  face. 
She  examined  the  philosopher's  deplorable  doublet  attentively. 
His  garment  was  worn,  and  more  full  of  holes  than  a  stove  for 
roasting  chestnuts.  The  girl  made  a  wry  face.  "  Old  rag ! "  she 
muttered,  and  addressing  Gringoire,  "  Let's  see  your  cloak ! " 
"  I  have  lost  it,"  replied  Gringoire.  "  Your  hat  ?  "  «  They  took 
it  away  from  me."  "  Your  shoes  ?  "  "They  have  hardly  any 
soles  left."  "  Your  purse  ?  "  "  Alas ! "  stammered  Gringoire,  "  I 
have  not  even  a  sou."  "  Let  them  hang  you,  then,  and  say '  Thank 
you ! '  "  retorted  the  vagabond  wench,  turning  her  back  on  him. 

The  second,  —  old,  black,  wrinkled,  hideous,  with  an  ugliness 
conspicuous  even  in  the  Cour  des  Miracles,  trotted  round  Grin- 
goire. He  almost  trembled  lest  she  should  want  him.  But  she 
mumbled  between  her  teeth,  "  He's  too  thin,"  and  went  off. 

The  third  was  a  young  girl,  quite  fresh,  and  not  too  ugly. 
"  Save  me  !  "  said  the  poor  fellow  to  her,  in  a  low  tone.  She 
gazed  at  him  for  a  moment  with  an  air  of  pity,  then  dropped 
her  eyes,  made  a  plait  in  her  petticoat,  and  remained  in  inde- 
cision. He  followed  all  these  movements  with  his  eyes ;  it 
Avas  the  last  gleam  of  hope.  "No,"  said  the  young  girl,  at 
length,  "  no !  Guillaume  Longuejoue  would  beat  me."  She 
retreated  into  the  croAvd. 

"  You  are  unlucky,  comrade,"  said  Clopin. 

Then  rising  to  his  feet,  upon  his  hogshead.  "  No  one  wants 
him,"  he  exclaimed,  imitating  the  accent  of  an  auctioneer,  to 
the  great  delight  of  all ;  "  no  one  \vants  him  ?  once,  tAvice, 
three  times  ! "  and,  turning  toAvards  the  gibbet  AArith  a  sign  of 
his  hand,  "  Gone  !  "^ 

Bellevigne  de  1'Etoile,  Andry  the  Keel,  Francois  Chante- 
Prune,  stepped  up  to  Gringoire. 

At  that  moment  a  cry  arose  among  the  thieves :  "  La  Es- 
meralda  !  La  Esmeralda  !  " 

Gringoire  shuddered,  and  turned  towards  the  side  Avhence 
the  clamor  proceeded. 

The  croAvd  opened,  and  gave  passage  to  a  pure  and  dazzling 
form. 

It  was  the  gypsy. 


102  NOTRE-DAME. 

"  La  Esmeralda ! "  said  Gringoire,  stupefied  in  the  midst  of 
his  emotions,  by  the  abrupt  manner  in  which  that  magic  word 
knotted  together  all  his  reminiscences  of  the  day. 

This  rare  creature  seemed,  even  in  the  Cour  des  Miracles, 
to  exercise  her  sway  of  charm  and  beauty.  The  vagabonds, 
male  and  female,  ranged  themselves  gently  along  her  path,  and 
their  brutal  faces  beamed  beneath  her  glance. 

She  approached  the  victim  with  her  light  step.  Her  pretty 
Djali  followed  her.  Gringoire  was  more  dead  than  alive.  She 
examined  him  for  a  moment  in  silence. 

"  You  are  going  to  hang  this  man  ?  "  she  said  gravely,  to 
Clopin. 

"  Yes,  sister,"  replied  the  King  of  Thunes,  "  unless  you  will 
take  him  for  your  husband." 

She  made  her  pretty  little  pout  with  her  under  lip. 

"I'll  take  him,"  said  she. 

Gringoire  firmly  believed  that  he  had  been  in  a  dream  ever 
since  morning,  and  that  this  was  the  continuation  of  it. 

The  change  was,  in  fact,  violent,  though  a  gratifying  one. 

They  undid  the  noose,  and  made  the  poet  step  down  from  the 
stool.  His  emotion  was  so  lively  that  he  was  obliged  to  sit  down. 

The  Duke  of  Egypt  brought  an  earthenware  crock,  without 
uttering  a  word.  The  gypsy  offered  it  to  Gringoire  :  "  Fling 
it  on  the  ground,"  said  she. 

The  crock  broke  into  four  pieces. 

"Brother,"  then  said  the  Duke  of  Egypt,  laying  his  hands 
upon  their  foreheads,  "she  is  your  wife;  sister,  he  is  your 
husband  for  four  years.  Go." 


CHAPTER   VII. 


A     BRIDAL     NIGHT. 

A  FEW  moments  later  our  poet  found  himself  in  a  tiny 
arched  chamber,  very  cosy,  very  warm,  seated  at  a  table 
which  appeared  to  ask  nothing  better  than  to  make  some  loans 
from  a  larder  hanging  near  by,  having  a  good  bed  in  prospect, 
and  alone  with  a  pretty  girl.  The  adventure  smacked  of 
enchantment  He  began  seriously  to  take  himself  for  a  per- 
sonage in  a  fairy  tale ;  he  cast  his  eyes  about  him  from  time 
to  time  to  time,  as  though  to  see  if  the  chariot  of  fire,  har- 
nessed to  two-winged  chimeras,  which  alone  could  have  so 
rapidly  transported  him  from  Tartarus  to  Paradise,  were  still 
there.  At  times,  also,  he  fixed  his  eyes  obstinately  upon  the 
holes  in  his  doublet,  in  order  to  cling  to  reality,  and  not  lose 
the  ground  from  under  his  feet  completely.  His  reason, 
tossed  about  in  imaginary  space,  now  hung  only  by  this 
thread. 

The  young  girl  did  not  appear  to  pay  any  attention  to  him  ; 
she  went  and  came,  displaced  a  stool,  talked  to  her  goat,  and 
indulged  in  a  pout  now  find  then.  At  last  she  came  and 
seated  herself  near  the  table,  and  Gringoire  was  able  to 
scrutinize  her  at  his  ease. 

You  have  been  a  child,  reader,  and  you  would,  perhaps,  be 
very  happy  to  be  one  still.  It  is  quite  certain  that  you  have 
not,  more  than  once  (and  for  my  part,  I  have  passed  whole 
days,  the  best  employed  of  my  life,  at  it)  followed  from 

103 


104  NOTRE-DAME. 

thicket  to  thicket,  by  the  side  of  running  water,  on  a  sunny 
day,  a  beautiful  green  or  blue  dragon-fly,  breaking  its  flight 
in  abrupt  angles,  and  kissing  the  tips  of  all  the  branches. 
You  recollect  with  what  amorous  curiosity  your  thought  and 
your  gaze  were  riveted  upon  this  little  whirlwind,  hissing 
and  humming  with  wings  of  purple  and  azure,  in  the  midst 
of  which  floated  an  imperceptible  body,  veiled  by  the  very 
rapidity  of  its  movement.  The  aerial  being  which  was  dimly 
outlined  amid  this  quivering  of  wings,  appeared  to  you  chi- 
merical, imaginary,  impossible  to  touch,  impossible  to  see. 
But  when,  at  length,  the  dragon-fly  alighted  on  the  tip  of  a 
reed,  and,  holding  your  breath  the  while,  you  were  able  to  ex- 
amine the  long,  gauze  wings,  the  long  enamel  robe,  the  two 
globes  of  crystal,  what  astonishment  you  felt,  and  what  fear 
lest  you  should  again  behold  the  form  disappear  into  a  shade, 
and  the  creature  into  a  chimera !  Recall  these  impressions, 
and  you  will  readily  appreciate  what  Gringoire  felt  on  con- 
templating, beneath  her  visible  and  palpable  form,  that  Esmer- 
alda  of  whom,  up  to  that  time,  he  had  only  caught  a  glimpse, 
amidst  a  whirlwind  of  dance,  song,  and  tumult. 

Sinking  deeper  and  deeper  into  his  revery :  "  So  this," 
he  said  to  himself,  following  her  vaguely  with  his  eyes,  "  is 
la  Esmeralda  !  a  celestial  creature  !  a  street  dancer  !  so  much, 
and  so  little !  'Twas  she  who  dealt  the  death-blow  to  my 
mystery  this  morning,  'tis  she  who  saves  my  life  this  even- 
ing !  My  evil  genius !  My  good  angel !  A  pretty  woman, 
on  my  word !  and  who  must  needs  love  me  madly  to  have 
taken  me  in  that  fashion  By  the  way,"  said  he,  rising  sud- 
denly, with  that  sentiment  of  the  true  which  formed  the 
foundation  of  his  character  and  his  philosophy,  "  I  don't  know 
very  well  how  it  happens,  but  I  am  her  husband ! " 

AYith  this  idea  in  his  head  and  in  his  eyes,  he  stepped  up  to 
the  young  girl  in  a  manner  so  military  and  so  gallant  that  she 
drew  back. 

"  What  do  you  want  of  me  ?  "  said  she. 

"  Can  you  ask  me,  adorable  Esmeralda  ?  "  replied  Gringoire, 
with  so  passionate  an  accent  that  he  was  himself  astonished 
at  it  on  hearing  himself  speak. 


A   BRIDAL  XIGHT.  105 

The  gypsy  opened  her  great  eyes.  "I  don't  know  what 
you  mean." 

"  What ! "  resumed  Gringoire,  growing  warmer  and  warmer, 
and  supposing  that,  after  all,  he  had  to  deal  merely  with  a 
virtue  of  the  Gourdes  Miracles;  "am  I  not  thine,  sweet  friend, 
art  thou  not  mine  ?  " 

And,  quite  ingenuously,  he  clasped  her  waist. 

The  gypsy's  corsage  slipped  through  his  hands  like  the  skin 
of  an  eel.  She  bounded  from  one  end  of  the  tiny  room  to  the 
other,  stooped  down,  and  raised  herself  again,  with  a  little 
poniard  in  her  hand,  before  Gringoire  had  even  had  time  to 
see  whence  the  poniard  came  ;  proud  and  angry,  with  swell- 
ing lips  and  inflated  nostrils,  her  cheeks  as  red  as  an  api 
apple,*  and  her  eyes  darting  lightnings.  At  the  same  time, 
the  white  goat  placed  itself  in  front  of  her,  and  presented  to 
Gringoire  a  hostile  front,  bristling  with  two  pretty  horns, 
gilded  and  very  sharp.  All  this  took  place  in  the  twinkling 
of  an  eye. 

The  dragon-fly  had  turned  into  a  wasp,  and  asked,  nothing 
better  than  to  sting. 

Our  philosopher  was  speechless,  and  turned  his  astonished 
eyes  from  the  goat  to  the  young  girl.  "  Holy  Virgin  ! "  he 
said  at  last,  when  surprise  permitted  him  to  speak,  "  here  are 
two  hearty  dames !  " 

The  gypsy  broke  the  silence  on  her  side. 

"  You  must  be  a  very  bold  knave  ! " 

"  Pardon,  mademoiselle,"  said  Gringoire,  with  a  smile.  "  But 
why  did  you  take  me  for  your  husband  ?  " 

"  Should  I  have  allowed  you  to  be  hanged  ?  " 

"  So,"  said  the  poet,  somewhat  disappointed  in  his  amorous 
hopes.  "You  had  no  other  idea  in  marrying  me  than  to  save 
me  from  the  gibbet  ?  " 

"  And  what  other  idea  did  you  suppose  that  I  had  ?  " 

Gringoire  bit  his  lips.  "  Come,"  said  he,  "  I  am  not  yet  so 
triumphant  in  Cupido,  as  I  thought.  But  then,  what  was  tlu- 
good  of  breaking  that  poor  jug  ?" 

*  A  small  dessert  apple,  bright  red  on  one  side  and  greenish-white  on 
the  other. 


106  NOTRE-DAME. 

"Meanwhile  Esraeralda's  dagger  and  the  goat's  horns  were 
still  upon  the  defensive. 

"  Mademoiselle  Esmeralda,"  said  the  poet,  "  let  us  come  to 
terms.  I  am  not  a  clerk  of  the  court,  and  I  shall  not  go  to 
law  with  you  for  thus  carrying  a  dagger  in  Paris,  in  the  teeth 
of  the  ordinances  and  prohibitions  of  M.  the  Provost.  Never- 
theless, you  are  not  ignorant  of  the  fact  that  Xoel  Lescrivain 
was  condemned,  a  week  ago,  to  pay  ten  Parisian  sous,  for 
having  carried  a  cutlass.  But  this  is  no  affair  of  mine,  and  I 
will  come  to  the  point.  I  swear  to  you,  upon  my  share  of  Para- 
dise, not  to  approach  you  without  your  leave  and  permission, 
but  do  give  me  some  supper. 

The  truth  is,  Gringoire  was,  like  M.  Despreaux,  "  not  very 
voluptuous."  He  did  not  belong  to  that  chevalier  and  mus- 
keteer species,  who  take  young  girls  by  assault.  In  the  matter 
of  love,  as  in  all  other  affairs,  he  willingly  assented  to  tem- 
porizing and  adjusting  terms  ;  and  a  good  supper,  and  an  amia- 
ble tete-a-tete  appeared  to  him,  especially  when  he  was  hungry, 
an  excellent  interlude  between  the  prologue  and  the  catas- 
trophe of  a  love  adventure. 

The  gypsy  did  not  reply.  She  made  her  disdainful  little 
grimace,  drew  up  her  head  like  a  bird,  then  burst  out  laugh- 
ing, and  the  tiny  poniard  disappeared  as  it  had  come,  without 
Gringoire  being  able  to  see  where  the  wasp  concealed  its  sting. 

A  moment  later,  there  stood  upon  the  table  a  loaf  of  rye 
bread,  a  slice  of  bacon,  some  wrinkled  apples  and  a  jug  of 
beer.  Gringoire  began  to  eat  eagerly.  One  would  have  said, 
to  hear  the  furious  clashing  of  his  iron  fork  and  his  earthen- 
ware plate,  that  all  his  love  had  turned  to  appetite. 

The  young  girl  seated  opposite  him,  watched  him  in  silence, 
visibly  preoccupied  with  another  thought,  at  which  she  smiled 
from  time  to  time,  while  her  soft  hand  caressed  the  intelligent 
head  of  the  goat,  gently  pressed  between  her  knees. 

A  candle  of  yellow  wax  illuminated  this  scene  of  voracity 
and  re  very. 

Meanwhile,  the  first  cravings  of  his  stomach  having  been 
stilled,  Gringoire  felt  some  false  shame  at  perceiving  that 
nothing  remained  but  one  apple. 


A   BRIDAL   NIGHT.  107 

"  You  do  not  eat,  Mademoiselle  Esmeralda  ?  " 

She  replied  by  a  negative  sign  of  the  head,  and  her  pensive 
glance  fixed  itself  upon  the  vault  of  the  ceiling. 

'•What  the  deuce  is  she  thinking  of?"  thought  Gringoire, 
staring  at  what  she  was  gazing  at ;  "  'tis  impossible  that  it  can 
be  that  stone  dwarf  carved  in  the  keystone  of  that  arch,  which 
thus  absorbs  her  attention.  What  the  deuce  !  I  can  bear  the 
comparison !  " 

He  raised  his  voice,  "  Mademoiselle  !  " 

She  seemed  not  to  hear  him. 

He  repeated,  still  more  loudly,  "  Mademoiselle  Esmeralda  !  " 

Trouble  wasted.  The  young  girl's  mind  was  elsewhere,  and 
Gringoire's  voice  had  not  the  power  to  recall  it.  Fortunately, 
the  goat  interfered.  She  began  to  pull  her  mistress  gently 
by  the  sleeve. 

"  What  dost  thou  want,  Djali  ?  "  said  the  gypsy,  hastily, 
as  though  suddenly  awakened. 

"  She  is  hungry,"  said  Gringoire,  charmed  to  enter  into  con- 
versation. Esmeralda  began  to  crumble  some  bread,  which 
Djali  ate  gracefully  from  the  hollow  of  her  hand. 

Moreover,  Gringoire  did  not  give  her  time  to  resume  her 
revery.  He  hazarded  a  delicate  question. 

"  So  you  don't  want  me  for  your  husband  ?  " 

The  young  girl  looked  at  him  intently,  and  said, "  No." 

"  For  your  lover  ?  "  went  on  Gringoire. 

She  pouted,  and  replied,  "  No  " 

"  For  your  friend  ?  "  pursued  Gringoire. 

She  gazed  fixedly  at  him  again,  and  said,  after  a  momentary 
reflection,  "  Perhaps." 

This  "  perhaps,"  so  dear  to  philosophers,  emboldened  Grip 
goire. 

"Do  you  know  what  friendship  is  ?  "  he  asked 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  gypsy  ;  "  it  is  to  be  brother  and  sister ;  twc 
souls  which  touch  without  mingling,  two  fingers  on  one  hand. 

"  And  love  ?  "  pursued  Gringoire. 

"  Oh  !  love  !  "  said  she,  and  her  voice  trembled,  and  her  eye 
beamed.  "  That  is  to  be  two  and  to  be  but  one.  A  man  and  a 
woman  mingled  into  one  angel.  It  is  heaven." 


NOTRE-DAME. 

The  street  dancer  had  a  beauty  as  she  spoke  thus,  that 
struck  Gringoire  singularly,  and  seemed  to  him  in  perfect 
keeping  with  the  almost  oriental  exaltation  of  her  words. 
Her  pure,  red  lips  half  smiled ;  her  serene  and  candid  brow 
became  troubled,  at  intervals,  under  her  thoughts,  like  a  mirror 
under  the  breath ;  and  from  beneath  her  long,  drooping,  black 
eyelashes,  there  escaped  a  sort  of  ineffable  light,  which  gave 
to  her  profile  that  ideal  serenity  which  Raphael  found  at 
the  mystic  point  of  intersection  of  virginity,  maternity,  and 
divinity. 

Nevertheless,  Gringoire  continued,  — 

"  What  must  one  be  then,  in  order  to  please  you  ?  " 

«  A  man." 

"  And  I  —  "  said  he,  "  what,  then,  am  I." 

"  A  man  has  a  hemlet  on  his  head,  a  sword  in  his  hand,  and 
golden  spurs  on  his  heels." 

"Good,"  said  Gringoire,  "without  a  horse,  no  man.  Do 
you  love  any  one  ?  " 

"  As  a  lover  ?  — " 

«  Yes." 

She  remained  thoughtful  for  a  moment,  then  said  with  a 
peculiar  expression  :  "  That  I  shall  know  soon." 

"  Why  not  this  evening  ? "  resumed  the  poet  tenderly. 
"  Why  not  me  ?  " 

She  cast  a  grave  glance  upon  him  and  said,  — 

"  I  can  never  love  a  man  who  cannot  protect  me." 

Gringoire  colored,  and  took  the  hint.  It  was  evident  that 
the  young  girl  was  alluding  to  the  slight  assistance  which  he 
had  rendered  her  in  the  critical  situation  in  which  she  had 
found  herself  two  hours  previously.  This  memory,  effaced  by 
his  own  adventures  of  the  evening,  now  recurred  to  him.  He 
smote  his  brow. 

"  By  the  way,  mademoiselle,  I  ought  to  have  begun  there. 
Pardon  my  foolish  absence  of  mind.  How  did  you  contrive 
to  escape  from  the  claws  of  Quasimodo  ?  " 

This  question  made  the  gypsy  shudder. 

"  Oh !  the  horrible  hunchback,"  said  she,  hiding  her  face  in 
her  hands.  And  she  shuddered  as  though  with  violent  cold. 


A  BRIDAL  NIGHT.  109 

"  Horrible,  in  truth,"  said  Gringoire,  who  clung  to  his  idea  ; 
"  but  how  did  you  manage  to  escape  him  ?  " 

La  Esmeralda  smiled,  sighed,  and  remained  silent. 

"Do  you  know  why  he  followed  you,"  began  Gringoire 
again,  seeking  to  return  to  his  question  by  a  circuitous  route. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  the  young  girl,  and  she  added  hastily, 
"But  you  were  following  me  also,  why  were  you  following 
me  ?  " 

"  In  good  faith,"  responded  Gringoire,  "  I  don't .  know 
either." 

Silence  ensued.  Gringoire  slashed  the  table  with  his  knife. 
The  young  girl  smiled  and  seemed  to  be  gazing  through  the 
wall  at  something.  All  at  once  she  began  to  sing  in  a  barely 
articulate  voice, — 

Quando  las  pintadas  aves, 
Mudas  estan,  y  la  tierra  —  * 

She  broke  off  abruptly,  and  began  to  caress  Djali. 

"  That's  a  pretty  animal  of  yours,"  said  Gringoire. 

"  She  ia  iny  sister,"  she  answered. 

"  Why  are  you  called  la  Esmeralda  ?  "  asked  the  poet. 

"  I  do  not  know." 

"But  why  ?" 

She  drew  from  her  bosom  a  sort  of  little  oblong  bag,  sus- 
pended from  her  neck  by  a  string  of  adrezarach  beads.  This 
bag  exhaled  a  strong  odor  of  camphor.  It  was  covered  with 
green  silk,  and  bore  in  its  centre  a  large  piece  of  green  glass, 
in  imitation  of  an  emerald. 

"  Perhaps  it  is  because  of  this,"  said  she. 

Gringoire  was  on  the  point  of  taking  the  bag  in  his  hand. 
She  drew  back. 

"  Don't  touch  it !  It  is  an  amulet.  You  would  injure  the 
charm,  or  the  charm  would  injure  you." 

The  poet's  curiosity  was  more  and  more  aroused. 

"  Who  gave  it  to  you  ?  " 

She  laid  one  finger  011  her  mouth  and  concealed  the  amulet 

*  When  the  gay-plumaged  birds  grow  weary,  and  the  earth  — 


NOTRE-DAME. 

in  her  bosom.  He  tried  a  few  more  questions,  but  she  hardly 
replied. 

"  What  is  the  meaning  of  the  words,  la  Esmeralda  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  she. 

"  To  what  language  do  they  belong  ?  " 

"  They  are  Egyptian,  I  think." 

"I  suspected  as  much,"  said  Gringoire,  "you  are  not  a 
native  of  France  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Are  your  parents  alive  ?  " 

She  began  to  sing,  to  an  ancient  air,  — 

Mon  pere  est  oiseau, 
Ma  mere  est  oiselle. 
Je  passe  1'eau  sans  nacelle, 
Je  passe  1'eau  sans  bateau, 
Ma  mere  est  oiselle, 
Mon  pere  est  oiseau.* 

"Good,"  said  Gringoire.  "At  what  age  did  you  come  to 
France  ?  " 

"  When  I  was  very  young." 

"  And  when  to  Paris  ?  " 

"  Last  year.  At  the  moment  when  we  were  entering  the 
papal  gate  I  saw  a  reed  warbler  flit  through  the  air,  that  was 
at  the  end  of  August;  I  said,  it  will  be  a  hard  winter." 

"  So  it  was,"  said  Gringoire,  delighted  at  this  beginning  of 
a  conversation.  "I  passed  it  in  blowing  my  fingers.  So 
you  have  the  gift  of  prophecy  ?  " 

She  retired  into  her  laconics  again. 

"  No." 

"  Is  that  man  whom  you  call  the  Duke  of  Egypt,  the  chief 
of  your  tribe  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"But  it  was  he  who  married  us,"  remarked  the  poet  timidly. 

She  made  her  customary  pretty  grimace. 

"  I  don't  even  know  your  name." 

*  My  father  is  a  bird,  my  mother  is  a  bird.  I  cross  the  water  without 
a  barque,  I  cross  the  water  without  a  boat.  My  mother  is  a  bird,  my 
father  is  a  bird. 


A   BRIDAL  NIGHT. 

"  My  name  ?  If  you  want  it,  here  it  is,  —  Pierre  Grin- 
goire." 

"  I  know  a  prettier  one,"  said  she. 

"Naughty  girl ! "  retorted  the  poet.  "Never  mind,  you  shall 
not  provoke  me.  Wait,  perhaps  you  will  love  me  more  when 
you  know  me  better ;  and  then,  you  have  told  me  your  story 
with  so  much  confidence,  that  I  owe  you  a  little  of  mine.  You 
must  know,  then,  that  my  name  is  Pierre  Gringoire,  and  that 
I  am  a  son  of  the  farmer  of  the  notary's  office  of  Gonesse. 
My  father  was  hung  by  the  Burgundians,  and  my  mother  dis- 
embowelled by  the  Picards,  at  the  siege  of  Paris,  twenty  years 
ago.  At  six  years  of  age,  therefore,  I  was  an  orphan,  without 
a  sole  to  my  foot  except  the  pavements  of  Paris.  I  do  not 
know  how  I  passed  the  interval  from  six  to  sixteen.  A  fruit 
dealer  gave  me  a  plum  here,  a  baker  flung  me  a  crust  there ; 
in  the  evening  I  got  myself  taken  up  by  the  watch,  who  threw 
me  into  prison,  and  there  I  found  a  bundle  of  straw.  All  this 
did  not  prevent  my  growing  up  and  growing  thin,  as  you  see. 
In  the  winter  I  warmed  myself  in  the  sun,  under  the  porch  of 
the  Hotel  de  Sens,  and  I  thought  it  very  ridiculous  that  the 
fire  on  Saint  John's  Day  was  reserved  for  the  dog  days.  At 
sixteen.  I  wished  to  choose  a  calling.  I  tried  all  in  succession. 
I  became  a  soldier ;  but  I  was  not  brave  enough.  I  became  a 
monk ;  but  I  was  not  sufficiently  devout ;  and  then  I'm  a  bad 
hand  at  drinking.  In  despair,  I  became  an  apprentice  of  the 
woodcutters,  but  I  was  not  strong  enough;  I  had  more  of 
an  inclination  to  become  a  schoolmaster  ;  'tis  true  that  I  did 
not  know  how  to  read,  but  that's  no  reason.  I  perceived  at 
the  end  of  a  certain  time,  that  I  lacked  something  in  every 
direction ;  and  seeing  that  I  was  good  for  nothing,  of  my  own 
free  will  I  became  a  poet  and  rhymester.  That  is  a  trade 
which  one  can  always  adopt  when  one  is  a  vagabond,  and  it's 
better  than  stealing,  as  some  young  brigands  of  my  acquaint- 
ance advised  me  to  do.  One  day  I  met  by  luck,  Dom  Claude 
Frollo,  the  reverend  archdeacon  of  Notre-Dame.  He  took  an 
interest  in  me,  and  it  is  to  him  that  I  to-day  owe  it  that  I  am  a 
veritable  man  of  letters.  Avho  knows  Latin  from  the  de  Officiis 
of  Cicero  to  the  mortuology  of  the  Celestine  Fathers,  and  a  bar- 


NOTRE-DAME. 

barian  neither  in  scholastics,  nor  in  politics,  nor  in  rhythmics, 
that  sophism  of  sophisms.  I  am  the  author  of  the  Mystery 
which  was  presented  to-day  with  great  triumph  and  a  great 
concourse  of  populace,  in  the  grand  hall  of  the  Palais  de  Jus- 
tice. I  have  also  made  a  book  which  will  contain  six  hundred 
pages,  on  the  wonderful  comet  of  1465,  which  sent  one  man 
mad.  I  have  enjoyed  still  other  successes.  Being  somewhat 
of  an  artillery  carpenter,  I  lent  a  hand  to  Jean  Mangue's  great 
bombard,  which  burst,  as  you  know,  on  the  day  when  it  was 
tested,  on  the  Pont  de  Charenton,  and  killed  four  and  twenty 
curious  spectators.  You  see  that  I  am  not  a  bad  match  in 
marriage.  I  know  a  great  many  sorts  of  very  engaging  tricks, 
which  I  will  teach  your  goat;  for  example,  to  mimic  the 
Bishop  of  Paris,  that  cursed  Pharisee  whose  mill  wheels 
splash  passers-by  the  whole  length  of  the  Pont  aux  Meuniers. 
And  then  my  mystery  will  bring  me  in  a  great  deal  of  coined 
money,  if  they  will  only  pay  me.  And  finally,  I  am  at  your 
orders,  I  and  my  wits,  and  my  science  and  my  letters,  ready 
to  live  with  you,  damsel,  as  it  shall  please  you,  chastely  or 
joyously ;  husband  and  wife,  if  you  see  fit ;  brother  and  sister, 
if  you  think  that  better." 

Gringoire  ceased,  awaiting  the  effect  of  his  harangue  on  the 
young  girl.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  ground. 

" Phoebus"  she  said  in  a  low  voice.  Then,  turning  towards 
the  poet,  "  Phoebus,  —  what  does  that  mean  ?  " 

Gringoire,  without  exactly  understanding  what  the  connec- 
tion could  be  between  his  address  and  this  question,  was  not 
sorry  to  display  his  erudition.  Assuming  an  air  of  importance, 
he  replied,  — 

"  It  is  a  Latin  word  which  means  sun." 

"  Sun !  "  she  repeated. 

"  It  is  the  name  of  a  handsome  archer,  who  was  a  god," 
added  Gringoire. 

"A  god!"  repeated  the  gypsy,  and  there  was  something 
pensive  and  passionate  in  her  tone. 

At  that  moment,  one  of  her  bracelets  became  unfastened 
and  fell.  Gringoire  stooped  quickly  to  pick  it  up;  when  he 
straightened  up,  the  young  girl  and  the  goat  had  disappeared. 


A   HEIDAL   NIGHT. 


113 


He  heard  the  sound  of  a  bolt.  It  was  a  little  door,  commu- 
nicating, no  doubt,  with  a  neighboring  cell,  which  was  being 
fastened  on  the  outside. 

"  Has  she  left  me  a  bed,  at  least  ?  "  said  our  philosopher. 

He  made  the  tour  of  his  cell.  There  was  no  piece  of  fur- 
niture adapted  to  sleeping  purposes,  except  a  tolerably  long 
wooden  coffer ;  and  its  cover  was  carved,  to  boot ;  which 
afforded  Gringoire,  when  he  stretched  himself  out  upon  it,  a 
sensation  somewhat  similar  to  that  which  Micromegas  would 
feel  if  he  were  to  lie  down  on  the  Alps. 

"  Come  ! "  said  he,  adjusting  himself  as  well  as  possible,  "  I 
must  resign  myself.  But  here's  a  strange  nuptial  night.  'Tis 
a  pity.  There  was  something  innocent  and  antediluvian  about 
that  broken  crock,  which  quite  pleased  me." 


BOOK  THIRD. 


CHAPTER  I. 

NOTRE-DAME. 

THE  church  of  Notre-Dame  de  Paris  is  still  no  doubt,  a 
majestic  and  sublime  edifice.  But,  beautiful  as  it  has  been 
preserved  in  growing  old,  it  is  difficult  not  to  sigh,  not  to  wax 
indignant,  before  the  numberless  degradations  and  mutilations 
which  time  and  men  have  both  caused  the  venerable  monu- 
ment to  suffer,  without  respect  for  Charlemagne,  who  laid  its 
first  stone,  or  for  Philip  Augustus,  who  laid  the  last. 

On  the  face  of  this  aged  queen  of  our  cathedrals,  by  the 
side  of  a  wrinkle,  one  always  finds  a  scar.  Tempus  edny, 
homo  edacior ;* 'which  I  should  be  glad  to  translate  thus  :  time 
is  blind,  man  is  stupid. 

If  we  had  leisure  to  examine  with  the  reader,  one  by  one, 
the  divers  traces  of  destruction  imprinted  upon  the  old 
church,  time's  share  would  be  the  least,  the  share  of  men  the 
most,  especially  the  men  of  art,  since  there  have  been  individ- 
uals who  assumed  the  title  of  architects  during  the  last  two 
centuries. 

And,  in  the  first  place,  to  cite  only  a  few  leading  examples, 
there  certainly  are  few  finer  architectural  pages  than  this 
facade,  where,  successively  and  at  once,  the  three  portals 

*  Time  is  a  devourer  ;  man,  more  so. 
114 


NOTRE-DAME.  H5 

hollowed  out  in  an  arch;  the  broidered  and  dentated  cor- 
don of  the  eight  and  twenty  royal  niches ;  the  immense  cen- 
tral rose  window,  flanked  by  its  two  lateral  windows,  like  a 
priest  by  his  deacon  and  subdeacon ;  the  frail  and  lofty  gallery 
of  trefoil  arcades,  which  supports  a  heavy  platform  above  its 
fine,  slender  columns ;  and  lastly,  the  two  black  and  massive 
towers  with  their  slate  penthouses,  harmonious  parts  of  a 
magnificent  whole,  superposed  in  five  gigantic  stories  ; — develop 
themselves  before  the  eye,  in  a  mass  and  without  confusion, 
with  their  innumerable  details  of  statuary,  carving,  and  sculpt- 
ure, joined  powerfully  to  the  tranquil  grandeur  of  the  whole ; 
a  vast  symphony  in  stone,  so  to  speak ;  the  colossal  work  of 
one  man  and  one  people,  all  together  one  and  complex,  like 
the  Iliads  and  the  Eomanceros,  whose  sister  it  is ;  prodigious 
product  of  the  grouping  together  of  all  the  forces  of  an  epoch, 
where,  upon  each  stone,  one  sees  the  fancy  of  the  workman 
disciplined  by  the  genius  of  the  artist  start  forth  in  a  hun- 
dred fashions ;  a  sort  of  human  creation,  in  a  word,  powerful 
and  fecund  as  the  divine  creation  of  which  it  seems  to  have 
stolen  the  double  character,  —  variety,  eternity. 

And  what  we  here  say  of  the  fa9ade  must  be  said  of  the 
entire  church ;  and  what  we  say  of  the  cathedral  church  of 
Paris,  must  be  said  of  all  the  churches  of  Christendom  in  the 
Middle  Ages.  All  things  are  in  place  in  that  art,  self-created, 
logical,  and  well  proportioned.  To  measure  the  great  toe  of 
the  foot  is  to  measure  the  giant. 

Let  us  return  to  the  facade  of  Notre-Dame,  as  it  still 
appears  to  us,  when  we  go  piously  to  admire  the  grave  and 
puissant  cathedral,  which  inspires  terror,  so  its  chronicles 
assert :  quce  mole  sua  terrorem  incutit  spectantibus. 

Three  important  things  are  to-day  lacking  in  that  facade  : 
in  the  first  place,  the  staircase  of  eleven  steps  which  formerly 
raised  it  above  the  soil;  next,  the  lower  series  of  statues 
which  occupied  the  niches  of  the  three  portals :  and  lastly  the 
upper  series,  of  the  twenty-eight  most  ancient  kings  of  France, 
Avhich  garnished  the  gallery  of  the  first  story,  beginning  with 
Childebert,  and  ending  with  Phillip  Augustus,  holding  in  his 
hand  "  the  imperial  apple." 


116  NOTBE-DAME. 

Time  has  caused  the  staircase  to  disappear,  by  raising  the 
soil  of  the  city  with  a  slow  and  irresistible  progress;  but. 
while  thus  causing  the  eleven  steps  which  added  to  the  majes- 
tic height  of  the  edifice,  to  be  devoured,  one  by  one,  by  the 
rising  tide  of  the  pavements  of  Paris,  —  time  has  bestowed 
upon  the  church  perhaps  more  than  it  has  taken  away,  for  it 
is  time  which  has  spread  over  the  facade  that  sombre  hue  of 
the  centuries  which  makes  the  old  age  of  monuments  the 
period  of  their  beauty. 

But  who  has  thrown  down  the  two  rows  of  statues  ?  who 
has  left  the  niches  empty  ?  who  has  cut,  in  the  very  middle  of 
the  central  portal,  that  new  and  bastard  arch  ?  who  has  dared 
to  frame  therein  that  commonplace  and  heavy  door  of  carved 
wood,  a  la  Louis  XV.,  beside  the  arabesques  of  Biscornette  ? 
The  men,  the  architects,  the  artists  of  our  day. 

And  if  we  enter  the  interior  of  the  edifice,  who  has  over- 
thrown that  colossus  of  Saint  Christopher,  proverbial  for 
magnitude  among  statues,  as  the  grand  hall  of  the  Palais  de 
Justice  was  among  halls,  as  the  spire  of  Strasbourg  among 
spires  ?  And  those  myriads  of  statues,  which  peopled  all 
the  spaces  between  the  columns  of  the  nave  and  the  choir, 
kneeling,  standing,  equestrian,  men,  women,  children,  kings, 
bishops,  gendarmes,  in  stone,  in  marble,  in  gold,  in  silver,  in 
copper,  in  wax  even,  —  who  has  brutally  swept  them  away  ? 
It  is  not  time. 

And  who  substituted  for  the  ancient  gothic  altar,  splendidly 
encumbered  with  shrines  and  reliquaries,  that  heavy  marble 
sarcophagus,  with  angels'  heads  and  clouds,  which  seems  a 
specimen  pillaged  from  the  Val-de-Grfice  or  the  Invalides  ? 
Who  stupidly  sealed  that  heavy  anachronism  of  stone  in  the 
Carlo vingian  pavement  of  Hercandus  ?  Was  it  not  Louis 
XIV.,  fulfilling  the  request  of  Louis  XIII. 

And  who  put  the  cold,  white  panes  in  the  place  of  those 
windows,  "  high  in  color,"  which  caused  the  astonished  eyes 
of  our  fathers  to  hesitate  between  the  rose  of  the  grand  por- 
tal and  the  arches  of  the  apse?  And  what  would  a  sub- 
chanter  of  the  sixteenth  century  say.  on  beholding  the  beau- 
tiful yellow  wash,  with  which  our  archiepiscopal  vandals  hasre 


NOTSE-DAME. 

desmeared  their  cathedral  ?  He  would  remember  that  it 
was  the  color  with  which  the  hangman  smeared  "  accursed " 
edifices  ;  he  would  recall  the  Hotel  du  Petit-Bourbon,  all 
smeared  thus,  on  account  of  the  constable's  treason.  "  Yel- 
low, after  all,  of  so  good  a  quality,"  said  Sauval,  "and  so 
well  recommended,  that  more  than  a  century  has  not  yet 
caused  it  to  lose  its  color."  He  would  think  that  the  sacred 
place  had  become  infamous,  and  would  flee. 

And  if  we  ascend  the  cathedral,  without  mentioning  a  thou- 
sand barbarisms  of  every  sort,  —  what  has  become  of  that 
charming  little  bell  tower,  which  rested  upon  the  point  of 
intersection  of  the  cross-roofs,  and  which,  no  less  frail  and  no 
less  bold  than  its  neighbor  (also  destroyed),  the  spire  of  the 
Sainte-Chapelle,  buried  itself  in  the  sky,  farther  forward  than 
the  towers,  slender,  pointed,  sonorous,  carved  in  open  work. 
An  architect  of  good  taste  amputated  it  (1787),  and  consid- 
ered it  sufficient  to  mask  the  Avound  with  that  large,  leaden 
plaster,  which  resembles  a  pot  cover. 

'Tis  thus  that  the  marvellous  art  of  the  Middle  Ages  has 
been  treated  in  nearly  every  country,  especially  in  France. 
One  can  distinguish  on  its  ruins  three  sorts  of  lesions,  all 
three  of  which  cut  into  it  at  different  depths;  first,  time, 
which  has  insensibly  notched  its  surface  here  and  there,  and 
gnawed  it  everywhere ;  next,  political  and  religious  revolu- 
tions, which,  blind  and  wrathful  by  nature,  have  flung  them- 
selves tumultuously  upon  it,  torn  its  rich  garment  of  carving 
and  sculpture,  burst  its  rose  windows,  broken  its  necklace  of 
arabesques  and  tiny  figures,  torn  out  its  statues,  sometimes 
because  of  their  mitres,  sometimes  because  of  their  crowns; 
lastly,  fashions,  even  more  grotesque  and  foolish,  which,  since 
the  anarchical  and  splendid  deviations  of  the  Renaissance, 
have  followed  each  other  in  the  necessary  decadence  of  archi- 
tecture. Fashions  have  wrought  more  harm  than  revolutions. 
They  have  cut  to  the  quick;  they  have  attacked  the  very 
bone  and  framework  of  art;  they  have  cut,  slashed,  disor- 
ganized, killed  the  edifice,  in  form  as  in  the  symbol,  in  its 
consistency  as  well  as  in  its  beauty.  And  then  they  have 
made  it  over ;  a  presumption  of  which  neither  time  nor  revo- 


NOTBE-DAME. 

lutions  at  least  have  been  guilty.  They  have  audaciously 
adjusted,  in  the  name  of  "good  taste,"  upon  the  wounds  ol 
gothic  architecture,  their  miserable  gewgaws  of  a  day,  their 
ribbons  of  marble,  their  pompons  of  metal,  a  veritable  leprosy 
of  egg-shaped  ornaments,  volutes,  whorls,  draperies,  garlands, 
fringes,  stone  flames,  bronze  clouds,  pudgy  cupids,  chubby^ 
cheeked  cherubim,  which  begin  to  devour  the  face  of  art  in 
the  oratory  of  Catherine  de  Medicis,  and  cause  it  to  expire, 
two  centuries  later,  tortured  and  grimacing,  in  the  boudoir  of 
the  Dubarry. 

Thus,  to  sum  up  the  points  which  we  have  just  indicated, 
three  sorts  of  ravages  to-day  disfigure  Gothic  architecture. 
Wrinkles  and  warts  on  the  epidermis ;  this  is  the  work  of 
time.  Deeds  of  violence,  brutalities,  contusions,  fractures ; 
this  is  the  work  of  the  revolutions  from  Luther  to  Mirabeau. 
Mutilations,  amputations,  dislocation  of  the  joints,  restora- 
tions ;  this  is  the  Greek,  Roman,  and  barbarian  work  of  pro- 
fessors according  to  Vitruvius  and  Vignole.  This  magnificent 
art  produced  by  the  Vandals  has  been  slain  by  the  academies. 
The  centuries,  the  revolutions,  which  at  least  devastate  with 
impartiality  and  grandeur,  have  been  joined  by  a  cloud  of 
school  architects,  licensed,  sworn,  and  bound  by  oath;  defac- 
ing with  the  discernment  and  choice  of  bad  taste,  substituting 
the  chicorees  of  Louis  XV.  for  the  Gothic  lace,  for  the  greater 
glory  of  the  Parthenon.  It  is  the  kick  of  the  ass  at  the 
dying  lion.  It  is  the  old  oak  crowning  itself,  and  which, 
to  heap  the  measure  full,  is  stung,  bitten,  and  gnawed  by 
caterpillars. 

How  far  it  is  from  the  epoch  when  Robert  Cenalis.  compar- 
ing Notre  Dame  de  Paris  to  the  famous  temple  of  Diana  at 
Ephesus,  so  muck  lauded  by  the  ancient  pagans,  which  Eros- 
tatus  has  immortalized,  found  the  Gallic  temple  "  more  excel- 
lent in  length,  breadth,  height,  and  structure."  * 

Notre-Dame  is  not,  moreover,  what  can  be  called  a  com- 
plete, definite,  classified  monument.  It  is  no  longer  a  Roman- 
esque church;  nor  is  it  a  Gothic  church.  This  edifice  is 
not  a  type.  Notre  Dame  de  Paris  has  not,  like  the  Abbey  of 
*  Histoire  Gallicane,  liv.  II.  Periode  III.  fo.  130,  p.  1. 


NOTRE-DAME.  H9 

JCournus,  the  grave  and  massive  frame,  the  large  and  round 
vault,  the  glacial  bareness,  the  majestic  simplicity  of  the 
edifices  which  have  the  rounded  arch  for  their  progenitor.  It 
is  not,  like  the  Cathedral  of  Bourges,  the  magnificent,  light, 
multiform,  tufted,  bristling  efflorescent  product  of  the  pointed 
arch.  Impossible  to  class  it  in  that  ancient  family  of  sombre, 
mysterious  churches,  low  and  crushed  as  it  were  by  the  round 
arch,  almost  Egyptian,  with  the  exception  of  the  ceiling ;  all 
hieroglyphics,  all  sacerdotal,  all  symbolical,  more  loaded  in 
their  ornaments,  with  lozenges  and  zigzags,  than  with  flowers, 
with  flowers  than  with  animals,  with  animals  than  with  men ; 
the  work  of  the  architect  less  than  of  the  bishop ;  first  trans- 
formation of  art,  all  impressed  with  theocratic  and  military 
discipline,  taking  root  in  the  Lower  Empire,  and  stopping 
with  the  time  of  William  the  Conqueror.  Impossible  to  place 
our  Cathedral  in  that  other  family  of  lofty,  aerial  churches, 
rich  in  painted  windows  and  sculpture;  pointed  in  form, 
bold  in  attitude;  communal  and  bourgeois  as  political  sym- 
bols ;  free,  capricious,  lawless,  as  a  work  of  art ;  second 
transformation  of  architecture,  no  longer  hieroglyphic,  im- 
movable and  sacerdotal,  but  artistic,  progressive,  and  popular, 
which  begins  at  the  return  from  the  crusades,  and  ends  with 
Louis  IX.  Xotre  Dame  de  Paris  is  not  of  pure  Komanesque, 
like  the  first ;  nor  of  pure  Arabian  race,  like  the  second. 

It  is  an  edifice  of  the  transition  period.  The  Saxon  archi- 
tect completed  the  erection  of  the  first  pillars  of  the  nave, 
when  the  pointed  arch,  which  dates  from  the  Crusade,  arrived 
and  placed  itself  as  a  conqueror  upon  the  large  Komanesque 
capitals  which  should  support  only  round  arches.  The  pointed 
arch,  mistress  since  that  time,  constructed  the  rest  of  the 
church.  Nevertheless,  timid  and  inexperienced  at  the  start, 
it  sweeps  out,  grows  larger,  restrains  itself,  and  dares  no 
longer  dart  upwards  in  spires  and  lancet  windows,  as  it  did 
later  on,  in  so  many  marvellous  cathedrals.  One  would  say 
that  it  were  conscious  of  the  vicinity  of  the  heavy  Roman- 
esque pillars. 

However,  these  edifices  of  the  transition  from  the  Roman- 
esque to  the  Gothic,  are  no  less  precious  for  study  than  the 


1 00  NO  TRE-DA  M  K. 

pure  types.  They  express  a  shade  of  the  art  which  would  be 
lost  without  them.  It  is  the  graft  of  the  pointed  upon  the 
round  arch. 

Notre-Dame  de  Paris  is,  in  particular,  a  curious  specimen 
of  this  variety.  Each  face,  each  stone  of  the  venerable  mon- 
ument, is  a  page  not  only  of  the  history  of  the  country,  but 
of  the  history  of  science  and  art  as  well.  Thus,  in  order  to 
indicate  here  only  the  principal  details,  while  the  little  Eed 
Door  almost  attains  to  the  limits  of  the  Gothic  delicacy 
of  the  fifteenth  century,  the  pillars  of  the  nave,  by  their 
size  and  weight,  go  back  to  the  Carlo viugian  Abbey  of 
Saint-Germain  des  Pres.  One  would  suppose  that  six  centu- 
ries separated  these  pillars  from  that  door.  There  is  no  one, 
not  even  the  hermetics,  who  does  not  find  in  the  symbols  of 
the  grand  portal  a  satisfactory  compendium  of  their  science, 
of  which  the  Church  of  Saint-Jacques  de  la  Boucherie  was 
so  complete  a  hieroglyph.  Thus,  the  Eoman  abbey,  the  phil- 
osophers' church,  the  Gothic  art,  Saxon  art,  the  heavy,  round 
pillar,  which  recalls  Gregory  VII.,  the  hermetic  symbolism, 
with  which  Nicolas  Flamel  played  the  prelude  to  Luther, 
papal  unity,  schism,  Saint-Germain  des  Pres,  Saint-Jacques 
de  la  Boucherie,  —  all  are  mingled,  combined,  amalgamated  in 
Notre-Dame.  This  central  mother  church  is,  among  the 
ancient  churches  of  Paris,  a  sort  of  chimera ;  it  has  the  head 
of  one,  the  limbs  of  another,  the  haunches  of  another,  some- 
thing of  all. 

We  repeat  it,  these  hybrid  constructions  are  not  the  least 
interesting  for  the  artist,  for  the  antiquarian,  for  the  historian. 
They  make  one  feel  to  what  a  degree  architecture  is  a  primi- 
tive thing,  by  demonstrating  (what  is  also  demonstrated  by 
the  cyclopean  vestiges,  the  pyramids  of  Egypt,  the  gigantic 
Hindoo  pagodas)  that  the  greatest  products  of  architecture 
are  less  the  works  of  individuals  than  of  society ;  rather  the 
offspring  of  a  nation's  effort,  than  the  inspired  flash  of  a  man 
of  genius ;  the  deposit  left  by  a  whole  people ;  the  heaps 
accumulated  by  centuries ;  the  residue  of  successive  evapora- 
tions of  human  society, — in  a  word,  species  of  formations. 
Each  wave  of  time  contributes  its  alluvium,  each  race  de- 


NOTRE-DAME. 

posits  its  layer  on  the  monument,  each  individual  brings  his 
stone.  Thus  do  the  beavers,  thus  do  the  bees,  thus  do  men. 
The  great  symbol  of  architecture,  Babel,  is  a  hive. 

Great  edifices,  like  great  mountains,  are  the  work  of  centu- 
ries. Art  often  undergoes  a  transformation  while  they  are 
pending,  pendent  opera  interrupta  ;  they  proceed  quietly  in 
accordance  with  the  transformed  art.  The  new  art  takes 
the  monument  where  it  finds  it,  incrusts  itself  there,  assimi- 
lates it  to  itself,  develops  it  according  to  its  fancy,  and  fin- 
ishes it  if  it  can.  The  thing  is  accomplished  without  trouble, 
without  effort,  without  reaction, — following  a  natural  and 
tranquil  law.  It  is  a  graft  which  shoots  up,  a  sap  which  cir- 
culates, a  vegetation  which  starts  forth  anew.  Certainly 
there  is  matter  here  for  many  large  volumes,  and  often  the 
universal  history  of  humanity  in  the  successive  engrafting  of 
many  arts  at  many  levels,  upon  the  same  monument.  The 
man,  the  artist,  the  individual,  is  effaced  in  these  great 
masses,  which  lack  the  name  of  their  author;  human  intel- 
ligence is  there  summed  up  and  totalized.  Time  is  the 
architect,  the  nation  is  the  builder. 

Not  to  consider  here  anything  except  the  Christian  archi- 
tecture of  Europe,  that  younger  sister  of  the  great  masonries 
of  the  Orient,  it  appears  to  the  eyes  as  an  immense  forma- 
tion divided  into  three  well-defined  zones,  which  are  super- 
posed, the  one  upon  the  other :  the  Romanesque  zone,*  the 
Gothic  zone,  the  zone  of  the  Renaissance,  which  we  would 
gladly  call  the  Greco-Roman  zone.  The  Roman  layer,  which 
is  the  most  ancient  and  deepest,  is  occupied  by  the  round 
arch,  which  reappears,  supported  by  the  Greek  column,  in 
the  modern  and  upper  layer  of  the  Renaissance.  The  pointed 

*  This  is  the  same  which  is  called,  according  to  locality,  climate,  and 
raoes,  Lombard,  Saxon,  or  Byzantine.  There  are  four  sister  and  parallel 
architectures,  each  having  its  special  character,  but  derived  from  the 
same  origin,  the  round  arch. 

Fades  non  omnibus  una, 
Non  diversa  tamen,  (jucilem,  etc. 

Their  faces  not  all  alike,  nor  yet  different,  but  such  as  the  faces  of 
sisters  ought  to  be. 


122  NOTRE-DAME. 

arch  is  found  between  the  two.  The  edifices  which  belong 
exclusively  to  any  one  of  these  three  layers  are  perfectly 
distinct,  uniform,  and  complete.  There  is  the  Abbey  of 
Jumieges,  there  is  the  Cathedral  of  Reims,  there  is  the 
Sainte-Croix  of  Orleans.  But  the  three  zones  mingle  and 
amalgamate  along  the  edges,  like  the  colors  in  the  solar  spec- 
trum. Hence,  complex  monuments,  edifices  of  gradation  and 
transition.  One  is  Roman  at  the  base,  Gothic  in  the  middle, 
Greco-Roman  at  the  top.  It  is  because  it  was  six  hundred 
years  in  building.  This  variety  is  rare.  The  donjon  keep  of 
d'Etampes  is  a  specimen  of  it.  But  monuments  of  two  for- 
mations are  more  frequent.  There  is  Notre-Dame  de  Paris,  a 
pointed-arch  edifice,  which  is  imbedded  by  its  pillars  in  that 
Roman  zone,  in  which  are  plunged  the  portal  of  Saint-Denis, 
and  the  nave  of  Saint-Germain  des  Pres.  There  is  the  charm- 
ing, half-Gothic  chapter-house  of  Bocherville,  where  the 
Roman  layer  extends  half  way  up.  There  is  the  cathedral  of 
Rouen,  which  would  be  entirely  Gothic  if  it  did  not  bathe 
the  tip  of  its  central  spire  in  the  zone  of  the  Renaissance.* 

However,  all  these  shades,  all  these  differences,  do  not 
affect  the  surfaces  of  edifices  only.  It  is  art  which  has 
changed  its  skin.  The  very  constitution  of  the  Christian 
church  is  not  attacked  by  it.  There  is  always  the  same 
internal  woodwork,  the  same  logical  arrangement  of  parts. 
Whatever  may  be  the  carved  and  embroidered  envelope  of  a 
cathedral,  one  always  finds  beneath  it  —  in  the  state  of  a 
germ,  and  of  a  rudiment  at  the  least  —  the  Roman  basilica. 
It  is  eternally  developed  upon  the  soil  according  to  the  same 
law.  There  are,  invariably,  two  naves,  which  intersect  in  a 
cross,  and  whose  upper  portion,  rounded  into  an  apse,  forms 
the  choir ;  there  are  always  the  side  aisles,  for  interior  proces- 
sions, for  chapels,  —  a  sort  of  lateral  walks  or  promenades 
where  the  principal  nave  discharges  itself  through  the  spaces 
between  the  pillars.  That  settled,  the  number  of  chapels, 
doors,  bell  towers,  and  pinnacles  are  modified  to  infinity, 
according  to  the  fancy  of  the  century,  the  people,  and  art. 

*  This  portion  of  the  spire,  which  was  of  woodwork,  is  precisely  that 
which  was  consumed  by  lightning,  in  1823. 


NOTRE-DAME. 


123 


Jhe  service  of  religion  once  assured  and  provided  for,  archi- 
tecture does  what  she  pleases.  Statues,  stained  glass,  rose 
windows,  arabesques,  denticulations,  capitals,  bas-reliefs,  — 
she  combines  all  these  imaginings  according  to  the  arrange- 
ment which  best  suits  her.  Hence,  the  prodigious  exterior 
variety  of  these  edifices,  at  whose  foundation  dwells  so  much 
order  and  unity.  The  trunk  of  a  tree  is  immovable ;  the 
foliage  is  capricious. 


CHAPTEK  H. 
A  BIRD'S-EYE  VIEW  OF  PARIS. 

WE  have  just  attempted  to  restore,  for  the  reader's  benefit, 
that  admirable  church  of  Notre-Dame  de  Paris.  We  have 
briefly  pointed  out  the  greater  part  of  the  beauties  which  it 
possessed  in  the  fifteenth  century,  and  which  it  lacks  to-day ; 
but  we  have  omitted  the  principal  thing, — the  view  of  Paris 
which  was  then  to  be  obtained  from  the  summits  of  its 
towers. 

That  was,  in  fact,  —  when,  after  having  long  groped  one's 
way  up  the  dark  spiral  which  perpendicularly  pierces  the 
thick  wall  of  the  belfries,  one  emerged,  at  last  abruptly,  upon 
one  of  the  lofty  platforms  inundated  with  light  and  air, — 
that  was,  in  fact,  a  fine  picture  which  spread  out,  on  all  sides 
at  once,  before  the  eye;  a  spectacle  sui  generis,  of  which 
those  of  our  readers  who  have  had  the  good  fortune  to  see  a 
Gothic  city  entire,  complete,  homogeneous,  —  a  few  of  which 
still  remain,  Nuremberg  in  Bavaria  and  Vittoria  in  Spain,  — 
can  readily  form  an  idea;  or  even  smaller  specimens,  pro- 
vided that  they  are  well  preserved,  —  Vitre  in  Brittany, 
Nordhausen  in  Prussia. 

The  Paris  of  three  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago  —  the  Paris 
of  the  fifteenth  century  —  was  already  a  gigantic  city.-  We 
Parisians  generally  make  a  mistake  as  to  the  ground  which 
we  think  that  we  have  gained,  since  Paris  has  not  increased 

124 


A   BIRD'S-EYE   VIEW  OF  PARIS.  125 

much  over  one-third  since  the  time  of  Louis  XI.  It  has  cer- 
tainly lost  more  in  beauty  than  it  has  gained  in  size. 

Paris  had  its  birth,  as  the  reader  knows,  in  that  old  island 
of  the  City  which  has  the  form  of  a  cradle.  The  strand  of 
that  island  was  its  first  boundary  wall,  the  Seine  its  first 
moat.  Paris  remained  for  many  centuries  in  its  island  state, 
with  two  bridges,  one  on  the  north,  the  other  on  the  south ; 
and  two  bridge  heads,  which  were  at  the  same  time  its 
gates  and  its  fortresses, — the  Grand-Chatelet  on  the  right 
bank,  the  Petit-Chatelet  on  the  left.  Then,  from  the  date  of 
the  kings  of  the  first  race,  Paris,  being  too  cribbed  and  con- 
fined in  its  island,  and  unable  to  return  thither,  crossed  the 
water.  Then,  beyond  the  Grand,  beyond  the  Petit-Chatelet, 
a  first  circle  of  walls  and  towers  began  to  infringe  upon  the 
country  on  the  two  sides  of  the  Seine.  Some  vestiges  of  this 
ancient  enclosure  still  remained  in  the  last  century ;  to-day, 
only  the  memory  of  it  is  left,  and  here  and  there  a  tradition, 
the  Baudets  or  Baudoyer  gate,  Porta  Bagauda. 

Little  by  little,  the  tide  of  houses,  always  thrust  from  the 
heart  of  the  city  outwards,  overflows,  devours,  wears  away, 
and  effaces  this  wall.  Philip  Augustus  makes  a  new  dike  for 
it.  He  imprisons  Paris  in  a  circular  chain  of  great  towers, 
both  lofty  and  solid.  For  the  period  of  more  than  a  century, 
the  houses  press  upon  each  other,  accumulate,  and  raise  then- 
level  in  this  basin,  like  water  in  a  reservoir.  They  begin  to 
deepen;  they  pile  story  upon  story;  they  mountt  upon  each 
other;  they  gush  forth  at  the  top,  like  all  laterally  com- 
pressed growth,  and  there  is  a  rivalry  as  to  which  shall  thrust 
its  head  above  its  neighbors,  for  the  sake  of  getting  a  little 
air.  The  street  grows  narrower  and  deeper,  every  space  is 
overwhelmed  and  disappears.  The  houses  finally  leap  the 
will  of  Philip  Augustus,  and  scatter  joyfully  over  the  plain, 
without  order,  and  all  askew,  like  runaways.  There  they 
plant  themselves  squarely,  cut  themselves  gardens  from  the 
fields,  and  take  their  ease.  Beginning  with  1367,  the  city 
spreads  to  such  an  extent  into  the  suburbs,  that  a  new  wall 
becomes  necessary,  particularly  011  the  right  bank ;  Charles  V. 
builds  it.  But  a 'city  like  Paris  is  perpetually  growing.  It  is 


126  NOTRE-DA3TE. 

only  such  cities  that  become  capitals.  They  are  funnels,  into 
which  all  the  geographical,  political,  moral,  and  intellectual 
water-sheds  of  a  country,  all  the  natural  slopes  of  a  people, 
pour;  *ells  of  civilization,  so  to  speak,  and  also  sewers,  where 
commerce,  industry,  intelligence,  population,  —  all  that  is  sap, 
all  that  is  life,  all  that  is  the  soul  of  a  nation,  filters  and 
amasses  unceasingly,  drop  by  drop,  century  by  century. 

So  Charles  V.'s  wall  suffered  the  fate  of  that  of  Philip 
Augustus.  At  the  end  of  the  fifteenth  century,  the  Faubourg 
strides  across  it,  passes  beyond  it,  and  runs  farther.  In  the 
sixteenth,  it  seems  to  retreat  visibly,  and  to  bury  itself  deeper 
and  deeper  in  the  old  city,  so  thick  had  the  new  city  already 
become  outside  of  it.  Thus,  beginning  with  the  fifteenth 
century,  where  our  story  finds  us,  Paris  had  already  outgrown 
the  three  concentric  circles  of  wails  which,  from  the  time  of 
Julian  the  Apostate,  existed,  so  to  speak,  in  germ  in  the 
Grand-Chatelet  and  the  Petit-Chatelet.  The  mighty  city  had 
cracked,  in  succession,  its  four  enclosures  of  walls,  like  a 
child  grown  too  large  for  his  garments  of  last  year.  Under 
Louis  XI.,  this  sea  of  houses  was  seen  to  be  pierced  at  in- 
tervals by  several  groups  of  ruined  towers,  from  the  ancient 
wall,  like  the  summits  of  hills  in  an  inundation,  —  like  archi- 
pelagos of  the  old  Paris  submerged  beneath  the  new. 

Since  that  time  Paris  has' undergone  yet  another  transform- 
ation, unfortunately  for  our  eyes;  but  it  has  passed  only  one 
more  wall,  that  of  Louis  XV.,  that  miserable  wall  of  mud  and 
spittle,  worthy  of  the  king  who  built  it,  worthy  of  the  poet 
who  sung  it,  — 

Le  mur  murant  Paris  rend  Paris  murmurant.* 

In  the  fifteenth  century,  Paris  was  still  divided  into  three 
wholly  distinct  and  separate  towns,  each  having  its  own  phys- 
iognomy, its  own  specialty,  its  manners,  customs,  privileges, 
and  history :  the  City,  the  University,  the  Town.  The  City, 
which  occupied  the  island,  was  the  most  ancient,  the  smallest, 
and  the  mother  of  the  other  two,  crowded  in  between  there 
*  The  wall  walling  Paris  makes  Paris  murmur. 


A   BIRD'S-EYE   VIEW  OF  PARIS.  127 

like  (may  we  be  pardoned  the  comparison)  a  little  old  woman 
between  two  large  and  handsome  maidens.  The  University 
covered  the  left  bank  of  the  Seine,  from  the  Tournelle  to  the 
Tour  de  Xesle,  points  which  correspond  in  the  Paris  of  to-day, 
the  one  to  the  wine  market,  the  other  to  the  mint.  Its  wall 
included  a  large  part  of  that  plain  where  Julian  had  built  his 
hot  baths.  The  hill  of  Sainte-Genevieve  was  enclosed  in  it. 
The  culminating  point  of  this  sweep  of  walls  was  the  Papal 
gate,  that  is  to  say,  near  the  present  site  of  the  Pantheon. 
The  Town,  which  was  the  largest  of  the  three  fragments  of 
Paris,  held  the  right  bank.  Its  quay,  broken  or  interrupted 
in  many  places,  ran  along  the  Seine,  from  the  Tour  de  Billy 
to  the  Tour  du  Bois  ;  that  is  to  say,  from  the  place  where  the 
granary  stands  to-day,  to  the  present  site  of  the  Tuileries. 
These  four  points,  where  the  Seine  intersected  the  wall  of  the 
capital,  the  Tournelle  and  the  Tour  de  X1  esle  on  the  right,  the 
Tour  de  Billy  and  the  Tour  du  Bois  on  the  left,  were  called 
pre-eminently,  the  four  towers  of  Paris.  The  Town  encroached 
still  more  extensively  upon  the  fields  than  the  University. 
The  culminating  point  of  the  Town  wall  (that  of  Charles  V.) 
was  at  the  gates  of  Saint-Denis  and  Saint-Martin,  whose  situ- 
ation has  not  been  changed. 

As  we  have  just  said,  each  of  these  three  great  divisions  of 
Paris  was  a  town,  but  too  special  a  town  to  be  complete,  a  city 
which  could  not  get  along  without  the  other  two.  Hence,  three 
entirely  distinct  aspects :  churches  abounded  in  the  City ;  pal- 
aces, in  the  Town,  and  colleges,  in  the  University.  Neglect- 
ing here  the  originalities,  of  secondary  importance  in  old  Paris, 
and  the  capricious  regulations  regarding  the  public  high- 
ways, we  will  say,  from  a  general  point  of  view,  taking  only 
masses  and  the  whole  group,  in  this  chaos  of  communal  juris- 
dictions, that  the  island  belonged  to  the  bishop,  the  right 
bank  to  the  provost  of  the  merchants,  the  left  bank  to  the 
Hector ;  over  all  ruled  the  provost  of  Paris,  a  royal  not  a  mu- 
nicipal official.  The  City  had  Notre-Dame;  the  Town,  the 
Louvre  and  the  Hotel  de  Ville  ;  the  University,  the  Sorbonne. 
The  Town  had  the  markets  (Halles) ;  the  city,  the  Hospital ; 
the  University,  the  Pre-aux-Clercs.  Offences  committed  by 


128  NOTRE-DAXfE. 

the  scholars  on  the  left  bank  were  tried  in  the  law  courts  on 
the  island,  and  were  punished  on  the  right  bank  at  Montfau- 
con ;  unless  the  rector,  feeling  the  university  to  be  strong  and 
the  king  weak,  intervened ;  for  it  was  the  students'  privilege 
to  be  hanged  on  their  own  grounds. 

The  greater  part  of  these  privileges,  it  may  be  noted  in 
passing,  and  there  were  some  even  better  than  the  above,  had 
been  extorted  from  the  kings  by  revolts  and  mutinies.  It  is 
the  course  of  things  from  time  immemorial ;  the  king  only 
lets  go  when  the  people  tear  away.  There  is  an  old  charter 
which  puts  the  matter  naively:  ajwopos  of  fidelity:  Civibus 
fidelitas  in  reges,  quce  tamen  aliquot ies  seditionibus  interrupta, 
multa  peperit  privilegia. 

In  the  fifteenth  century,  the  Seine  bathed  five  islands  within 
the  walls  of  Paris :  Louviers  island,  where  there  were  then 
trees,  and  where  there  is  no  longer  anything  but  wood ;  1'ile 
aux  Vaches,  and  1'iile  Notre  Dame,  both  deserted,  with  the 
exception  of  one  house,  both  fiefs  of  the  bishop  —  in  the 
seventeenth  century,  a  single  island  was  formed  out  of  these 
two,  which  was  built  upon  and  named  Tile  Saint-Louis — , 
lastly  the  City,  and  at  its  point,  the  little  islet  of  the  cow 
tender,  which  was  afterwards  engulfed  beneath  the  platform 
of  the  Pont-Neuf .  The  City  then  had  five  bridges :  three  on 
the  right,  the  Pont  Xotre-Daine,  and  the  Pont  au  Change,  of 
stone,  the  Pont  aux  Meuniers,  of  wood ;  two  on  the  left,  the 
Petit  Pont,  of  stone,  the  Pont  Saint-Michel,  of  wood ;  all 
loaded  with  houses. 

The  University  had  six  gates,  built  by  Philip  Augustus ; 
there  were,  beginning  with  la  Tournelle,  the  Porte  Saint- 
Victor,  the  Porte-Bordelle,  the  Porte  Papale,  the  Porte  Saint- 
Jacques,  the  Porte  Saint-Michel,  the  Porte  Saint-Germain. 
The  Town  had  six  gates,  built  by  Charles  V.  ;  beginning  with 
the  Tour  de  Billy  they  were  :  the  Porte  Saint-Antoine,  the  Porte 
du  Temple,  the  Porte  Saint-Martin,  the  Porte  Saint-Denis,  the 
Porte  Montmartre,  the  Porte  Saint-Honore.  All  these  gates 
were  strong,  and  also  handsome,  which  does  not  detract  from 
strength.  A  large,  deep  moat,  with  a  brisk  current  during 
the  high  water  of  winter,  bathed  the  base  of  the  wall  round 


A   BIRD'S-EYE   VIEW  OF  PARIS. 

Paris ;  the  Seine  furnished  the  water.  At  night,  the  gates 
were  shut,  the  river  was  barred  at  both  ends  of  the  city  with 
huge  iron  chains,  and  Paris  slept  tranquilly. 

From  a  bird's-eye  view,  these  three  burgs,  the  City,  the 
Town,  and  the  University,  each  presented  to  the  eye  an  inex- 
tricable skein  of  eccentrically  tangled  streets.  Nevertheless, 
at  first  sight,  one  recognized  the  fact  that  these  three  frag- 
ments formed  but  one  body.  One  immediately  perceived  three 
long  parallel  streets,  unbroken,  undisturbed,  traversing,  almost 
in  a  straight  line,  all  three  cities,  from  one  end  to  the  other ; 
from  Xorth  to  South,  perpendicularly,  to  the  Seine,  which 
bound  them  together,  mingled  them,  infused  them  in  each 
other,  poured  and  transfused  the  people  incessantly,  from  one 
to  the  other,  and  made  one  out  of  the  three.  The  first  of 
these  streets  ran  from  the  Porte  Saint-Martin :  it  was  called 
the  Rue  Saint-Jacques  in  the  University,  Rue  de  la  Juiverie  in 
the  City,  Rue  Saint  Martin  in  the  Town ;  it  crossed  the  water 
twice,  under  the  name  of  the  Petit  Pont  and  the  Pont  Notre- 
Dame.  The  second,  which  was  called  the  Rue  de  la  Harpe  on 
the  left  bank,  Rue  de  la  Barillerie  in  the  island,  Rue  Saint 
Dennis  on  the  right  bank,  Pont  Saint-Michel  on  one  arm  of 
the  Seine,  Pont  au  Change  on  the  other,  ran  from  the  Porte 
Saint-Michel  in  the  University,  to  the  Porte  Saint-Denis  in 
the  Town.  However,  under  all  these  names,  there  were  but 
two  streets,  parent  streets,  generating  streets,  —  the  two  arte- 
ries of  Paris.  All  the  other  veins  of  the  triple  city  either 
derived  their  supply  from  them  or  emptied  into  them. 

Independently  of  these  two  principal  streets,  piercing  Paris 
diametrically  in  its  whole  breadth,  from  side  to  side,  common 
to  the  entire  capital,  the  City  and  the  University  had  also 
each  its  own  great  special  street,  which  ran  lengthwise  by 
them,  parallel  to  the  Seine,  cutting,  as  it  passed,  at  right 
angles,  the  two  arterial  thoroughfares.  Thus,  in  the  Town, 
one  descended  in  a  straight  line  from  the  Porte  Saint-Antoine 
to  the  Porte  Saint-Honore ;  in  the  University  from  the  Porte 
Saint-Victor  to  the  Porte  Saint-Germain.  These  two  great 
thoroughfares  intersected  by  the  two  first,  formed  the  canvas 
upon  which  reposed,  knotted  and  crowded  together  on  every 


130  NOTRE-DAMK. 

hand,  the  labyrinthine  network  of  the  streets  of  Paris.  In 
the  incomprehensible  plan  of  these  streets,  one  distinguished 
likewise,  on  looking  attentively,  two  clusters  of  great  streets, 
like  magnified  sheaves  of  grain,  one  in  the  University,  the 
other  in  the  Town,  which  spread  out  gradually  from  the 
bridges  to  the  gates. 

Some  traces  of  this  geometrical  plan  still  exist  to-day. 

Now,  what  aspect  did  this  whole  present,  when,  as  viewed 
from  the  summit  of  the  towers  of  Notre-Dame,  in  1482  ? 
That  we  shall  try  to  describe. 

For  the  spectator  who  arrived,  panting,  upon  that  pinnacle, 
it  was  first  a  dazzling  confusing  view  of  roofs,  chimneys, 
streets,  bridges,  places,  spires,  bell  towers.  Everything  struck 
your  eye  at  once :  the  carved  gable,  the  pointed  roof,  the  tur- 
rets suspended  at  the  angles  of  the  walls ;  the  stone  pyramids 
of  the  eleventh  century,  the  slate  obelisks  of  the  fifteenth ;  the 
round,  bare  tower  of  the  donjon  keep ;  the  square  and  fretted 
tower  of  the  church ;  the  great  and  the  little,  the  massive  and 
the  aerial.  The  eye  was,  for  a  long  time,  wholly  lost  in  this 
labyrinth,  where  there  was  nothing  which  did  not  possess  its 
originality,  its  reason,  its  genius,  its  beauty,  —  nothing  which 
did  not  proceed  from  art ;  beginning  with  the  smallest  house, 
with  its  painted  and  carved  front,  with  external  beams,  ellip- 
tical door,  with  projecting  stories,  to  the  royal  Louvre,  which 
then  had  a  colonnade  of  towers.  But  these  are  the  principal 
masses  which  were  then  to  be  distinguished  when  the  eye 
began  to  accustom  itself  to  this  tumult  of  edifices. 

In  the  first  place,  the  City.  —  "  The  island  of  the  City,"  as 
Sauval  says,  who,  in  spite  of  his  confused  medley,  sometimes 
has  such  happy  turns  of  expression,  —  "  the  island  of  the  city 
is  made  like  a  great  ship,  stuck  in  the  mud  and  run  aground 
in  the  current,  near  the  centre  of  the  Seine." 

We  have  just  explained  that,  in  the  fifteenth  century,  this 
ship  was  anchored  to  the  two  banks  of  the  river  by  five 
bridges.  This  form  of  a  ship  had  also  struck  the  heraldic 
scribes ;  for  it  is  from  that,  and  not  from  the  siege  by  the 
Normans,  that  the  ship  which  blazons  the  old  shield  of  Paris, 
comes,  according  to  Favyn  and  Pasquier.  For  him  who  under- 


A   BIRD'S-EYE   VIEW  OF  PARIS. 

stands  how  to  decipher  them,  armorial  bearings  are  algebra, 
armorial  bearings  have  a  tongue.  The  whole  history  of  the 
second  half  of  the  Middle  Ages  is  written  in  armorial  bear-' 
ings,  —  the  first  half  is  in  the  symbolism  of  the  Roman 
churches.  They  are  the  hieroglyphics  of  feudalism,  succeed- 
ing those  of  theocracy. 

Thus  the  City  first  presented  itself  to  the  eye,  with  its  stern 
to  the  east,  and  its  prow  to  the  west.  Turning  towards  the 
prow,  one  had  before  one  an  innumerable  flock  of  ancient 
roofs,  over  which  arched  broadly  the  lead-covered  apse  of  the 
Sainte-Chapelle,  like  an  elephant's  haunches  loaded  with  its 
tower.  Only  here,  this  tower  was  the  most  audacious,  the 
most  open,  the  most  ornamented  spire  of  cabinet-maker's  work 
that  ever  let  the  sky  peep  through  its  cone  of  lace.  In  front 
of  Xotre-Dame,  and  very  near  at  hand,  three  streets  opened 
into  the  cathedral  square,  —  a  fine  square,  lined  with  ancient 
houses.  Over  the  south  side  of  this  place  bent  the  wrinkled 
and  sullen  fagade  of  the  Hotel  Dieu,  and  its  roof,  which  seemed 
covered  with  warts  and  pustules.  Then,  on  the  right  and  the 
left,  to  east  and  west,  within  that  wall  of  the  City,  which  was 
yet  so  contracted,  rose  the  bell  towers  of  its  one  and  twenty 
churches,  of  every  date,  of  every  form,  of  every  size,  from  the 
low  and  wormeaten  belfry  of  Saint-Denis  du  Pas  (Career 
Glaucini)  to  the  slender  needles  of  Saint-Pierre  aux  Boeufs 
and  Saint-Landry. 

Behind  Xotre-Dame,  the  cloister  and  its  Gothic  galleries 
spread  oiit  towards  the  north ;  on  the  south,  the  half-Roman 
palace  of  the  bishop;  on  the  east,  the  desert  point  of  the 
Terrain.  In  this  throng  of  houses  the  eye  also  distinguished, 
by  the  lofty  open-work  mitres  of  stone  which  then  crowned 
the  roof  itself,  even  the  most  elevated  windows  of  the  palace, 
the  hotel  given  by  the  city,  under  Charles  VI.,  to  Juvenal  des 
Ursins;  a  little  farther  on,  the  pitch-covered  sheds  of  the 
Palus  Market ;  in  still  another  quarter  the  new  apse  of  Saint- 
Germain  le  Vieux,  lengthened  in  1458,  with  a  bit  of  the  Rue 
aux  Febves;  and  then,  in  places,  a  square  crowded  with 
people ;  a  pillory,  erected  at  the  corner  of  a  street ;  a  fine 
fragment  of  the  pavement  of  Philip  Augustus,  a  magnificent 


132  NOTRE-DAME. 

flagging,  grooved  for  the  horses'  feet,  in  the  middle  of  the 
road,  and  so  badly  replaced  in  the  sixteenth  century  by  the 
•miserable  cobblestones,  called  the  pavement  of  the  League  ;  a 
deserted  back  courtyard,  with  one  of  those  diaphanous  stair- 
case turrets,  such  as  were  erected  in  the  fifteenth  century,  one 
of  which  is  still  to  be  seen  in  the  Rue  des  Bourdonnais. 
Lastly,  at  the  right  of  the  Sainte-Chapelle,  towards  the  west, 
the  Palais  de  Justice  rested  its  group  of  towers  at  the  edge 
of  the  water.  The  thickets  of  the  king's  gardens,  which 
covered  the  western  point  of  the  city,  masked  the  Island  du 
Passeur.  As  for  the  water,  from  the  summit  of  the  towers  of 
Notre-Dame  one  hardly  saw  it,  on  either  side  of  the  City ;  the 
Seine  was  hidden  by  bridges,  the  bridges  by  houses. 

And  when  the  glance  passed  these  bridges,  whose  roofs  were 
visibly  green,  rendered  mouldy  before  their  time  by  the  vapors 
from  the  water,  if  it  was  directed  to  the  left,  towards  the 
University,  the  first  edifice  which  struck  it  was  a  large,  low 
sheaf  of  towers,  the  Petit-Chatelet,  whose  yawning  gate  de- 
voured the  end  of  the  Petit-Pont.  Then,  if  your  view  ran 
along  the  bank,  from  east  to  west,  from  the  Tournelle  to  the 
Tour  de  Nesle,  there  was  a  long  cordon  of  houses,  with  carved 
beams,  stained-glass  windows,  each  story  projecting  over  that 
beneath  it,  an  interminable  zigzag  of  bourgeois  gables,  fre- 
quently interrupted  by  the  mouth  of  a  street,  and  from  time 
to  time  also  by  the  front  or  angle  of  a  huge  stone  mansion, 
planted  at  its  ease,  with  courts  and  gardens,  wings  and 
detached  buildings,  amid  this  populace  of  crowded  and  narrow 
houses,  like  a  grand  gentleman  among  a  throng  of  rustics. 
There  were  five  or  six  of  these  mansions  on  the  quay,  from  the 
house  of  Lorraine,  which  shared  with  the  Bernardins  the 
grand  enclosure  adjoining  the  Tournelle,  to  the  Hotel  de  Nesle, 
whose  principal  tower  ended  Paris,  and  whose  pointed  roofs 
were  in  a  position,  during  three  months  of  the  year,  to 
encroach,  with  their  black  triangles,  upon  the  scarlet  disk  of 
the  setting  sun. 

This  side  of  the  Seine  was,  however,  the  least  mercantile  of 
the  two.  Students  furnished  more  of  a  crowd  and  more  noise 
there  than  artisans,  and  there  was  not,  properly  speaking,  any 


A   BIRD'S-EYE   VIEW  OF  PARIS.  ^33 

quay,  except  from  the  Pont  Saint-Michel  to  the  Tour  de 
Xesle.  The  rest  of  the  bank  of  the  Seine  was  now  a  naked 
strand,  the  same  as  beyond  the  Bernardins ;  again,  a  throng 
of  houses,  standing  with  their  feet  in  the  water,  as  between 
the  two  bridges. 

There  was  a  great  uproar  of  laundresses ;  they  screamed, 
and  talked,  and  sang  from  morning  till  night  along  the  beach, 
and  beat  a  great  deal  of  linen  there,  just  as  in  our  day.  This 
is  not  the  least  of  the  gayeties  of  Paris. 

The  University  presented  a  dense  mass  to  the  eye.  From 
one  end  to  the  other,  it  was  homogeneous  and  compact.  The 
thousand  roofs,  dense,  angular,  clinging  to  each  other,  com- 
posed, nearly  all,  of  the  same  geometrical  element,  offered, 
when  viewed  from  above,  the  aspect  of  a  crystallization  of  the 
same  substance. 

The  capricious  ravine  of  streets  did  not  cut  this  block  of 
houses  into  too  disproportionate  slices.  The  forty-two  colleges 
were  scattered  about  in  a  fairly  equal  manner,  and  there  were 
some  everywhere.  The  amusingly  varied  crests  of  these 
beautiful  edifices  were  the  product  of  the  same  art  as  the 
simple  roofs  which  they  overshot,  and  were,  actually,  only 
a  multiplication  of  the  square  or  the  cube  of  the  same 
geometrical  figure.  Hence  they  complicated  the  whole  effect, 
without  disturbing  it;  completed,  without  overloading  it. 
Geometry  is  harmony.  Some  fine  mansions  here  and  there 
made  magnificent  outlines  against  the  picturesque  attics  of 
the  left  bank.  The  house  of  Nevers,  the  house  of  Rome,  the 
house  of  Reims,  Avhich  have  disappeared ;  the  hotel  de  Cluny, 
which  still  exists,  for  the  consolation  of  the  artist,  and  whose 
tower  was  so  stupidly  deprived  of  its  crown  a  few  years  ago. 
Close  to  Cluny,  that  Roman  palace,  with  fine  round  arches, 
were  once  the  hot  baths  of  Julian.  There  were  a  great  many 
abbeys,  of  a  beauty  more  devout,  of  a  grandeur  more  solemn 
than  the  mansions,  but  not  less  beautiful,  not  less  grand. 
Those  which  first  caught  the  eye  were  the  Bernardins,  with 
their  three  bell  towers;  Sainte-Genevieve,  whose  square 
tower,  which  still  exists,  makes  us  regret  the  rest ;  the  Sor- 
bonne,  half  college,  half  monastery,  of  which  so  admirable  a 


134  NOTEE-DAME. 

nave  survives;  the  fine  quadrilateral  cloister  of  the  Mathu- 
rins ;  its  neighbor,  the  cloister  of  Saint-Benoit,  within  whose 
walls  they  have  had  time  to  cobble  up  a  theatre,  between  the 
seventh  and  eighth  editions  of  this  book ;  the  Cordeliers,  with 
their  three  enormous  adjacent  gables ;  the  Augustins,  whose 
graceful  spire  formed,  after  the  Tour  de  Nesle,  the  second 
denticulation  on  this  side  of  Paris,  starting  from  the  west. 
The  colleges,  which  are,  in  fact,  the  intermediate  ring  between 
the  cloister  and  the  world,  hold  the  middle  position  in  the 
monumental  series  between  the  hotels  and  the  abbeys,  with  a 
severity  full  of  elegance,  sculpture  less  giddy  than  the  palaces, 
an  architecture  less  severe  than  the  convents.  Unfortunately, 
hardly  anything  remains  of  these  monuments,  where  Gothic 
art  combined  with  so  just  a  balance,  richness  and  economy. 
The  churches  (and  they  were  numerous  and  splendid  in  the 
University,  and  they  were  graded  there  also  in  all  the  ages  of 
architecture,  from  the  round  arches  of  Saint-Julian  to  the 
pointed  arches  of  Saint-Severin),  the  churches  dominated  the 
whole ;  and,  like  one  harmony  more  in  this  mass  of  harmonies, 
they  pierced  in  quick  succession  the  multiple  open  work  of 
the  gables  with  slashed  spires,  with  open-work  bell  towers, 
with  slender  pinnacles,  whose  line  was  also  only  a  magnificent 
exaggeration  of  the  acute  angle  of  the  roofs. 

The  ground  of  the  University  was  hilly;  Mount  Sainte- 
Genevieve  formed  an  enormous  mound  to  the  south;  and  it 
was  a  sight  to  see  from  the  summit  of  Notre-Dame  how  that 
throng  of  narrow  and  tortuous  streets  (to-day  the  Latin  Quar- 
ter), those  bunches  of  houses  which,  spread  out  in  every  direc- 
tion from  the  top  of  this  eminence,  precipitated  themselves  in 
disorder,  and  almost  perpendicularly  down  its  flanks,  nearly  to 
the  water's  edge,  having  the  air,  some  of  falling,  others  of 
clambering,  up  again,  and  all  of  holding  to  one  another.  A 
continual  flux  of  a  thousand  black  points  which  passed  each 
other  on  the  pavements  made  everything  move  before  the 
eyes ;  it  was  the  populace  seen  thus  from  aloft  and  afar. 

Lastly,  in  the  intervals  of  these  roofs,  of  these  spires,  of 
these  accidents  of  numberless  edifices,  which  bent  and  writhed, 
and  jagged  in  so  eccentric  a  manner  the  extreme  line  of  the 


A   BIRD'S-EYE   VIEW   OF  PAEI8.  135 

university,  one  caught  a  glimpse,  here  and  there,  of  a  great 
expanse  of  moss-grown  wall,  a  thick,  round  tower,  a  crenellated 
city  gate,  shadowing  forth  the  fortress;  it  was  the  wall  of 
Philip  Augustus.  Beyond,  the  fields  gleamed  green;  beyond, 
fled  the  roads,  along  which  were  scattered  a  few  more  suburban 
houses,  which  became  more  infrequent  as  they  became  more  dis- 
tant. Some  of  these  faubourgs  were  important:  there  were, 
first,  starting  from  la  Tournelle,  the  Bourg  Saint- Victor,  with 
its  one  arch  bridge  over  the  Bievre,  its  abbey  where  one  could 
read  the  epitaph  of  Louis  le  Gros,  epitaphium  Ludovici  Grossi, 
and  its  church  with  an  octagonal  spire,  flanked  with  four  little 
bell  towers  of  the  eleventh  century  (a  similar  one  can  be  seen 
at  fitampes ;  it  is  not  yet  destroyed) ;  next,  the  Bourg  Saint- 
Marceau,  which  already  had  three  churches  and  one  convent ; 
then,  leaving  the  mill  of  the  Gobelins  and  its  four  white  walls 
on  the  left,  there  was  the  Faubourg  Saint-Jacques  with  the 
beautiful  carved  cross  in  its  square;  the  church  of  Saint- 
Jacques  du  Haut-Pas,  which  was  then  Gothic,  pointed,  charm- 
ing; Saint-Magloire,  a  fine  nave  of  the  fourteenth  century, 
which  Napoleon  turned  into  a  hayloft;  Notre-Dame  des 
Champs,  where  there  were  Byzantine  mosaics;  lastly,  after 
having  left  behind,  full  in  the  country,  the  Monastery  des 
Chartreux,  a  rich  edifice  contemporary  with  the  Palais  de  Jus- 
tice, with  its  little  garden  divided  into  compartments,  and  the 
haunted  ruins  of  Vauvert,  the  eye  fell,  to  the  west,  upon  the 
three  Roman  spires  of  Saint-Germain  des  Pr6s.  The  Bourg 
Saint-Germain,  already  a  large  community,  formed  fifteen  or 
twenty  streets  in  the  rear;  the  pointed  bell  tower  of  Saint- 
Sulpice  marked  one  corner  of  the  town.  Close  beside  it  one 
descried  the  quadrilateral  enclosure  of  the  fair  of  Saint- 
Germain,  where  the  market  is  situated  to-day;  then  the 
abbot's  pillory,  a  pretty  little  round  tower,  well  capped  with 
a  leaden  cone ;  the  brickyard  was  further  on,  and  the  Rue  du 
Four,  which  led  to  the  common  bakehouse,  and  the  mill  on  its 
hillock,  and  the  lazar  house,  a  tiny  house,  isolated  and  half 
seen. 

But  that  which  attracted  the  eye  most  of  all,  and  fixed  it  for 
n  long  time  on  that  point,  was  the  abbey  itself.     It  is  certain 


136  NOTRE-DAME. 

that  this  monastery,  which  had  a  grand  air,  both  as  a  church  and 
as  a  seignory ;  that  abbatial  palace,  where  the  bishops  of  Paris 
counted  themselves  happy  if  they  could  pass  the  night ;  that 
refectory,  upon  which  the  architect  had  bestowed  the  air,  the 
beauty,  and  the  rose  window  of  a  cathedral;  that  elegant 
chapel  of  the  Virgin ;  that  monumental  dormitory ;  those  vast 
gardens ;  that  portcullis ;  that  drawbridge ;  that  envelope  of 
battlements  which  notched  to  the  eye  the  verdure  of  the  sur- 
rounding meadows ;  those  courtyards,  where  gleamed  men  at 
arms,  intermingled  with  golden  copes;  —  the  whole  grouped 
and  clustered  about  three  lofty  spires,  with  round  arches,  well 
planted  upon  a  Gothic  apse,  made  a  magnificent  figure  against 
the  horizon. 

When,  at  length,  after  having  contemplated  the  University 
for  a  long  time,  you  turned  towards  the  right  bank,  towards 
the  Town,  the  character  of  the  spectacle  was  abruptly  altered. 
The  Town,  in  fact  much  larger  than  the  University,  was  also 
less  of  a  unit.  At  the  first  glance,  one  saw  that  it  was  divided 
into  many  masses,  singularly  distinct.  First,  to  the  eastward, 
in  that  part  of  the  town  which  still  takes  its  name  from  the 
marsh  where  Camulogenes  entangled  Caesar,  was  a  pile  of 
palaces.  The  block  extended  to  the  very  water's  edge.  Four 
almost  contiguous  hotels,  Jouy,  Sens,  Barbeau,  the  house  of 
the  Queen,  mirrored  their  slate  peaks,  broken  with  slender 
turrets,  in  the  Seine. 

These  four  edifices  filled  the  space  from  the  Eue  des  Nonain- 
dieres,  to  the  abbey  of  the  Celestins,  whose  spire  gracefully 
relieved  their  line  of  gables  and,  battlements.  A  few  miserable, 
greenish  hovels,  hanging  over  the  water  in  front  of  these 
sumptuous  hotels,  did  not  prevent  one  from  seeing  the  fine 
angles  of  their  facades,  their  large,  square  windows  with 
stone  mullions,  their  pointed  porches  overloaded  with  statues, 
the  vivid  outlines  of  their  walls,  always  clear  cut,  and  all 
those  charming  accidents  of  architecture,  which  cause  Gothic 
art  to  have  the  air  of  beginning  its  combinations  afresh  with 
every  monument. 

Behind  these  palaces,  extended  in  all  directions,  now  broken, 
fenced  in,  battlemented  like  a  citadel,  now  veiled  by  great 


A  BIRD'S-EYE   VIEW  OF  PARIS.  137 

trees  like  a  Carthusian  convent,  the  immense  and  multiform 
enclosure  of  that  miraculous  Hotel  de  Saint-Pol,  where  the 
King  of  France  possessed  the  means  of  lodging  superbly  two 
and  twenty  princes  of  the  rank  of  the  dauphin  and  the  Duke 
of  Burgundy,  with  their  domestics  and  their  suites,  without 
counting  the  great  lords,  and  the  emperor  when  he  came  to 
view  Paris,  and  the  lions,  who  had  their  separate  hotel  at  the 
royal  hotel.  Let  us  say  here  that  a  prince's  apartment  was 
then  composed  of  never  less  than  eleven  large  rooms,  from 
the  chamber  of  state  to  the  oratory,  not  to  mention  the  gal- 
leries, baths,  vapor-baths,  and  other  "  superfluous  places,"  with 
which  each  apartment  was  provided ;  not  to  mention  the  pri- 
vate gardens  for  each  of  the  king's  guests ;  not  to  mention 
the  kitchens,  the  cellars,  the  domestic  offices,  the  general 
refectories  of  the  house,  the  poultry-yards,  where  there  were 
twenty-two  general  laboratories,  from  the  bakehouses  to  the 
wine-cellars ;  games  of  a  thousand  sorts,  malls,  tennis,  and  rid- 
ing at  the  ring ;  aviaries,  fishponds,  menageries,  stables,  barns, 
libraries,  arsenals  and  foundries.  This  was  what  a  king's  pal- 
ace, a  Louvre,  a  Hotel  de  Saint-Pol  was  then.  A  city  within 
a  city. 

From  the  tower  where  we  are  placed,  the  Hotel  Saint  Pol, 
almost  half  hidden  by  the  four  great  houses  of  which  we  have 
just  spoken,  was  still  very  considerable  and  very  marvellous 
to  see.  One  could  there  distinguish,  very  well,  though  cleverly 
united  with  the  principal  building  by  long  galleries,  decked 
with  painted  glass  and  slender  columns,  the  three  hotels  which 
Charles  V.  had  amalgamated  with  his  palace  :  the  Hotel  du 
Petit-Muce,  with  the  airy  balustrade,  which  formed  a  grace- 
ful border  to  its  roof ;  the  hotel  of  the  Abbe  de  Saint-Maur, 
having  the  vanity  of  a  stronghold,  a  great  tower,  machicola- 
tions, loopholes,  iron  gratings,  and  over  the  large  Saxon  door, 
the  armorial  bearings  of  the  abb(5,  between  the  two  mortises 
of  the  drawbridge ;  the  hotel  of  the  Comte  d'  Etampes,  whose 
donjon  keep,  ruined  at  its  summit,  was  rounded  and  notched 
like  a  cock's  comb ;  here  and  there,  three  or  four  ancient  oaks, 
forming  a  tuft  together  like  enormous  cauliflowers ;  gambols 
of  swans,  in  the  clear  water  of  the  fishponds,  all  in  folds  of 


138  NOTRE-DANE. 

light  and  shade ;  many  courtyards  of  which  one  beheld  pictur- 
esque bits  ;  the  Hotel  of  the  Lions,  with  its  low,  pointed 
arches  on  short,  Saxon  pillars,  its  iron  gratings  and  its  per- 
petual roar;  shooting  up  above  the  whole,  the  scale-orna- 
mented spire  of  the  Ave-Maria ;  on  the  left,  the  house  of 
the  Provost  of  Paris,  flanked  by  four  small  towers,  delicately 
grooved,  in  the  middle  ;  at  the  extremity,  the  Hotel  Saint-Pol, 
properly  speaking,  with  its  multiplied  facades,  its  successive 
enrichments  from  the  time  of  Charles  V.,  the  hybrid  excres- 
cences, with  which  the  fancy  of  the  architects  had  loaded  it 
during  the  last  two  centuries,  with  all  the  apses  of  its  chapels, 
all  the  gables  of  its  galleries,  a  thousand  weathercocks  for  the 
four  winds,  and  its  two  lofty  contiguous  towers,  whose  conical 
roof,  surrounded  by  battlements  at  its  base,  looked  like  those 
pointed  caps  which  have  their  edges  turned  up. 

Continuing  to  mount  the  stories  of  this  amphitheatre  of 
palaces  spread  out  afar  upon  the  ground,  after  crossing  a  deep 
ravine  hollowed  out  of  the  roofs  in  the  Town,  which  marked 
the  passage  of  the  Rue  Saint  Antoine,  the  eye  reached  the 
house  of  Angouleme,  a  vast  construction  of  many  epochs, 
where  there  were  perfectly  new  and  very  white  parts,  which 
melted  no  better  into  the  whole  than  a  red  patch  on  a  blue 
doublet.  Nevertheless,  the  remarkably  pointed  and  lofty 
roof  of  the  modern  palace,  bristling  with  carved  eaves,  cov- 
ered with  sheets  of  lead,  where  coiled  a  thousand  fantastic 
arabesques  of  sparkling  incrustations  of  gilded  bronze,  that 
roof,  so  curiously  damascened,  darted  upwards  gracefully  from 
the  midst  of  the  brown  ruins  of  the  ancient  edifice ;  whose 
huge  and  ancient  towers,  rounded  by  age  like  casks,  sinking 
together  with  old  age,  and  rending  themselves  from  top  to 
bottom,  resembled  great  bellies  unbuttoned.  Behind  rose  the 
forest  of  spires  of  the  Palais  des  Tournelles.  Xot  a  view  in 
the  world,  either  at  Chambord  or  at  the  Alhambra,  is  more 
magic,  more  aerial,  more  enchanting,  than  that  thicket  of 
spires,  tiny  bell  towers,  chimneys,  weather-vanes,  winding 
staircases,  lanterns  through  which  the  daylight  makes  its  way, 
which  seem  cut  out  at  a  blow,  pavilions,  spindle-shaped  tur- 
rets, or,  as  they  wore  then  called,  toumelles,  all  differing  in 


A  BIRD'S-EYE   VIEW  OF  PARIS.  139 

form,  in  height,  and  attitude.     One  would  have  pronounced 
it  a  gigantic  stone  chess-board. 

To  the  right  of  the  Tournelles,  that  truss  of  enormous 
towers,  black  as  ink,  running  into  each  other  and  tied,  as  it 
were,  by  a  circular  moat;  that  donjon  keep,  much  more  pierced 
with  loopholes  than  with  windows;  that  drawbridge,  always 
raised ;  that  portcullis,  always  lowered,  —  is  the  Bastille.  Those 
sorts  of  black  beaks  which  project  from  between  the  battle- 
ments, and  which  you  take  from  a  distance  to  be  eave  spouts, 
are  cannons. 

Beneath  tliem,  at  the  foot  of  the  formidable  edifice,,  behold 
the  Porte  Saiiite-Antoine,  buried  between  its  two  towers. 

Beyond  the  Tournelles,  as  far  as  the  wall  of  Charles  V., 
spread  out,  with  rich  compartments  of  verdure  and  of  flowers, 
a  velvet  carpet  of  cultivated  land  and  royal  parks,  in  the 
midst  of  which  one  recognized,  by  its  labyrinth  of  trees  and 
alleys,  the  famous  Daedalus  garden  which  Louis  XI.  had  given 
to  Coictier.  The  doctor's  observatory  rose  above  the  laby- 
rinth like  a  great  isolated  column,  with  a  tiny  house  for  a 
capital.  Terrible  astrologies  took  place  in  that  laboratory. 

There  to-day  is  the  Place  Koyale. 

As  we  have  just  said,  the  quarter  of  the  palace,  of  which 
we  have  just  endeavored  to  give  the  reader  some  idea  by 
indicating  only  the  chief  points,  filled  the  angle  which  Charles 
V.'s  wall  made  with  the  Seine  on  the  east.  The  centre  of 
the  Town  was  occupied  by  a  pile  of  houses  for  the  populace. 
It  was  there,  in  fact,  that  the  three  bridges  disgorged  upon 
the  right  bank,  and  bridges  lead  to  the  building  of  houses 
rather  than  palaces.  That  congregation  of  bourgeois  habita- 
tions, pressed  together  like  the  cells  in  a  hive,  had  a  beauty  of 
its  own.  It  is  with  the  roofs  of  a  capital  as  with  the  waves 
of  the  sea,  —  they  are  grand.  First  the  streets,  crossed  and 
entangled,  forming  a  hundred  amusing  figures  in  the  block ; 
around  the  market-place,  it  was  like  a  star  with  a  thousand 
rays. 

The  Eues  Saint-Denis  and  Saint-Martin,  with  their  innu- 
merable ramifications,  rose  one  after  the  other,  like  trees 
intertwining  their  branches ;  and  then  the  tortuous  lines, 


140  NOTRE-DAME. 

the  Rues  de  la  Platrerie,  de  la  Verrerie,  de  la  Tixeranderie, 
etc.,  meandered  over  all.  There  were  also  fine  edifices  which 
pierced  the  petrified  undulations  of  that  sea  of  gables.  At 
the  head  of  the  Pont  aux  Changeurs,  behind  which  one  beheld 
the  Seine  foaming  beneath  the  wheels  of  the  Pont  aux  Meun- 
iers,  there  was  the  Chalelet,  no  longer  a  Roman  tower,  as 
under  Julian  the  Apostate,  but  a  feudal  tower  of  the  thir- 
teenth century,  and  V)f  a  stone  so  hard  that  the  pickaxe  could 
not  break  away  so  much  as  the  thickness  of  the  fist  in  a  space 
of  three  hours ;  there  was  the  rich  square  bell  tower  of  Saint- 
Jacques  de  la  Boucherie,  with  its  angles  all  frothing  with 
carvings,  already  admirable,  although  it  was  not  finished  in 
the  fifteenth  century.  (It  lacked,  in  particular,  the  four 
monsters,  which,  still  perched  to-day  on  the  corners  of  its 
roof,  have  the  air  of  so  many  sphinxes  who  are  propounding  to 
new  Paris  the  riddle  of  the  ancient  Paris.  Rault,  the  sculp- 
tor, only  placed  them  in  position  in  1526,  and  received  twenty 
francs  for  his  pains.)  There  was  the  Maison-aux-Piliers,  the 
Pillar  House,  opening  upon  that  Place  de  Greve  of  which  we 
have  given  the  reader  some  idea;  there  was  Saint-Gervais, 
which  a  front  "  in  good  taste  "  has  since  spoiled ;  Saint-Mery, 
whose  ancient  pointed  arches  were  still  almost  round  arches ; 
Saint-Jean,  whose  magnificent  spire  was  proverbial;  there 
were  twenty  other  monuments,  which  did  not  disdain  to  bury 
their  wonders  in  that  chaos  of  black,  deep,  narrow  streets. 
Add  the  crosses  of  carved  stone,  more  lavishly  scattered 
through  the  squares  than  even  the  gibbets ;  the  cemetery  of 
the  Innocents,  whose  architectural  wall  could  be  seen  in  the 
distance  above  the  roofs ;  the  pillory  of  the  Markets,  whose 
top  was  visible  between  two  chimneys  of  the  Rue  de  la 
Cossonnerie ;  the  ladder  of  the  Croix-du-Trahoir,  in  its  square 
always  black  with  people ;  the  circular  buildings  of  the  wheat 
mart ;  the  fragments  of  Philip  Augustus's  ancient  wall, 
which  could  be  made  out  here  and  there,  drowned  among  the 
houses,  its  towers  gnawed  by  ivy,  its  gates  in  ruins,  with 
crumbling  and  deformed  stretches  of  wall ;  the  quay  with  its 
thousand  shops,  and  its  bloody  knacker's  yards ;  the  Seine  en- 
cumbered with  boats,  from  the  Port  au  Foin  to  For-1'Eveque, 


A  BIRD'S-EYE   VIEW  OF  PARIS. 

and  you  will   have  a  confused  picture  of  what  the  central 
trapezium  of  the  Town  was  like  in  1482. 

With  these  two  quarters,  one  of  hotels,  the  other  of  houses, 
the  third  feature  of  aspect  presented  by  the  city  was  a  long 
zone  of  abbeys,  which  bordered  it  in  nearly  the  whole  of  its 
circumference,  from  the  rising  to  the  setting  sun,  and,  behind 
the  circle  of  fortifications  which  hemmed  in  Paris,  formed  a 
second  interior  enclosure  of  convents  and  chapels.  Thus, 
immediately  adjoining  the  park  des  Tournelles,  between  the 
Kue  Saint- Antoine  and  the  Vielle  Rue  du  Temple,  there  stood 
Sainte-Catherine,  with  its  immense  cultivated  lands,  which 
were  terminated  only  by  the  wall  of  Paris.  Between  the  old 
and  the  new  Rue  du  Temple,  there  was  the  Temple,  a  sinister 
group  of  towers,  lofty,  erect,  and  isolated  in  the  middle  of  a 
vast,  battlemented  enclosure.  Between  the  Rue  Neuve-du- 
Temple  and  the  Rue  Saint-Martin,  there  was  the  Abbey  of 
Saint-Martin,  in  the  midst  of  its  gardens,  a  superb  fortified 
church,  whose  girdle  of  towers,  whose  diadem  of  bell  towers, 
yielded  in  force  and  splendor  only  to  Saint-Germain  des 
Pres.  Between  the  Rue  Saint-Martin  and  the  Rue  Saint- 
Denis,  spread  the  enclosure  of  the  Trinite. 

Lastly,  between  the  Rue  Saint  Denis,  and  the  Rue  Mont- 
orgueil,  stood  the  Filles-Dieu.  On  one  side,  the  rotting  roofs 
and  unpaved  enclosure  of  the  Cour  des  Miracles  could  be 
descried.  It  was  the  sole  profane  ring  which  was  linked  to 
that  devout  chain  of  convents. 

Finally,  the  fourth  compartment,  which  stretched  itself  out 
in  the  agglomeration  of  the  roofs  on  the  right  bank,  and 
which  occupied  the  western  angle  of  the  enclosure,  and  the 
banks  of  the  river  down  stream,  was  a  fresh  cluster  of  palaces 
and  hotels  pressed  close  about  the  base  of  the  Louvre.  The 
old  Louvre  of  Philip  Augustus,  that  immense  edifice  whose 
great  tower  rallied  about  it  three  and  twenty  chief  towers,  not 
to  reckon  the  lesser  towers,  seemed  from  a  distance  to  be 
enshrined  in  the  Gothic  roofs  of  the  Hotel  d'Ale^on,  and  the 
Petit-Bourbon.  This  hydra  of  towers,  giant  guardian  of 
Paris,  with  its  four  and  twenty  heads,  always  erect,  with  its 
monstrous  haunches,  loaded -or  scaled  with  slates,  and  aJl 


142  NOTRE-DAME. 

streaming  with  metallic  reflections,  terminated  with  wonderful 
effect  the  configuration  of  the  Town  towards  the  west. 

Thus  an  immense  block,  which  the  Romans  called  insula,  or 
island,  of  bourgeois  houses,  flanked  on  the  right  and  the  left 
by  two  blocks  of  palaces,  crowned,  the  one  by  the  Louvre,  the 
other  by  the  Tournelles,  bordered  on  the  north  by  a  long 
girdle  of  abbeys  and  cultivated  enclosures,  all  amalgamated 
and  melted  together  in  one  view ;  upon  these  thousands  of 
edifices,  whose  tiled  and  slated  roofs  outlined  upon  each  other 
so  many  fantastic  chains,  the  bell  towers,  tattooed,  fluted,  and 
ornamented  with  twisted  bands,  of  the  four  and  forty  churches 
on  the  right  bank ;  myriads  of  cross  streets ;  for  boundary  on 
one  side,  an  enclosure  of  lofty  walls  with  square  towers  (that 
of  the  University  had  round  towers)  ;  on  the  other,  the  Seine, 
cut  by  bridges,  and  bearing  on  its  bosom  a  multitude  of  boats  ; 
behold  the  Town  of  Paris  in  the  fifteenth  century. 

Beyond  the  walls,  several  suburban  villages  pressed  close 
about  the  gates,  but  less  numerous  and  more  scattered  than 
those  of  the  University.  Behind  the  Bastille  there  were 
twenty  hovels  clustered  round  the  curious  sculptures  of  the 
Croix-Faubin  and  the  flying  buttresses  of  the  Abbey  of  Saint- 
Antoine  des  Champs ;  then  Popincourt,  lost  amid  wheat  fields ; 
then  la  Courtille,  a  merry  village  of  wine-shops ;  the  hamlet 
of  Saint-Laurent  with  its  church  whose  bell  tower,  from  afar, 
seemed  to  add  itself  to  the  pointed  towers  of  the  Porte  Saint- 
Martin;  the  Faubourg  Saint-Denis,  with  the  vast  enclosure 
of  Saint-Ladre;  beyond  the  Montmartre  Gate,  the  Grange- 
Bateliere,  encircled  with  white  walls ;  behind  it,  with  its 
chalky  slopes,  Montmartre,  which  had  then  almost  as  many 
churches  as  windmills,  and  which  has  kept  only  the  windmills, 
for  society  no  longer  demands  anything  but  bread  for  the- 
body.  Lastly,  beyond  the  Louvre,  the  Faubourg  Saint- 
Honore,  already  considerable  at  that  time,  could  be  seen 
stretching  away  into  the  fields,  and  Petit-Bretagne  gleaming 
green,  and  the  Marche  aux  Pourceaux  spreading  abroad,  in 
whose  centre  swelled  the  horrible  apparatus  used  for  boiling 
counterfeiters.  Between  la  Courtille  and  Saint-Laurent,  your 
eye  had  already  noticed,  on  the  summit  of  an  eminence 


A   BIRD'S-EYE   VIEW  OF  PARIS. 

crouching  amid  desert  plains,  a  sort  of  edifice  which  resem- 
bled from  a  distance  a  ruined  colonnade,  mounted  upon  a 
basement  with  its  foundation  laid  bare.  This  was  neither  a 
Parthenon,  nor  a  temple  of  the  Olympian  Jupiter.  It  was 
Montfaucon. 

Xow,  if  the  enumeration  of  so  many  edifices,  summary  as 
we  have   endeavored   to   make  it,  has  not  shattered   in  the 
reader's   mind  the   general  image  of  old  Paris,  as  we  have 
constructed  it,  we  will  recapitulate  it  in  a  few  words.     In 
the  centre,  the  island  of  the  City,  resembling  as  to  form  an 
enormous  tortoise,  and  throwing  out  its  bridges  with  tiles  for 
scales,  like  legs  from  beneath  its  gray  shell  of  roofs.     On  the 
left,  the  monolithic  trapezium,  firm,  dense,  bristling,  of  the 
University;  on  the  right,  the  vast  semicircle  of  the  Town, 
much  more  intermixed  with  gardens  and  monuments.     The 
three  blocks,  city,  university,  and  town,  marbled  with  innu- 
merable streets.     Across  all,  the  Seine,  "  foster-mother  Seine," 
as  says  Father  Du  Breul,  blocked  with  islands,  bridges,  and 
boats.     All  about  an  immense  plain,  patched  with  a  thousand 
sorts  of   cultivated  plots,  sown  with  fine  villages.     On  the 
left,    Issy,    Vanvres,    Vaugirarde,  Montrouge,  Gentilly,   with 
its   round   tower  and   its   square   tower,  etc. ;   on  the  right, 
twenty  others,  from  Conflans  to  Ville-PEveque.     On  the  hori- 
zon, a  border  of  hills  arranged  in  a  circle  like  the  rim  of  the 
basin.     Finally,   far   away   to   the   east,   Vincennes,   and  its 
seven   quadrangular   towers;   to  the   south,  Bicetre   and  its 
pointed  turrets;  to  the  north,  Saint-Denis  and  its  spire;   to 
the  west,  Saint  Cloud  and  its  donjon  keep.     Such  was  the 
Paris  which  the  ravens,  who  lived  in  1482,  beheld  from  the 
summits  of  the  towers  of  iSTotre-Dame. 

Nevertheless,  Voltaire  said  of  this  city,  that  "  before  Louis 
XIV.,  it  possessed  but  four  fine  monuments " :  the  dome  of 
the  Sorbonne,  the  Val-de-Grace,  the  modern  Louvre,  and  I 
know  not  what  the  fourth  was  —  the  Luxembourg,  perhaps. 
Fortunately,  Voltaire  was  the  author  of  "  Candide  "  in  spite  of 
this,  and  in  spite  of  this,  he  is,  among  all  the  men  who  have 
followed  each  other  in  the  long  series  of  humanity,  the  one 
who  has  best  possessed  the  diabolical  laugh.  Moreover,  this 


144  NOTEE-DAME. 

proves  that  one  can  be  a  fine  genius,  and  yet  understand  noth- 
ing of  an  art  to  which  one  does  not  belong.  Did  not  Moliere 
imagine  that  he  was  doing  Raphael  and  Michael- Angelo  a  very 
great  honor,  by  calling  them  "  those  Mignards  of  their  age  ?  " 

Let  us  return  to  Paris  and  to  the  fifteenth  century. 

It  was  not  then  merely  a  handsome  city  ;  it  was  a  homo- 
geneous city,  an  architectural  and  historical  product  of  the 
Middle  Ages,  a  chronicle  in  stone.  It  was  a  city  formed  of 
two  layers  only ;  the  Romanesque  layer  and  the  Gothic  layer ; 
for  the  Roman  layer  had  disappeared  long  before,  with  the 
exception  of  the  Hot  Baths  of  Julian,  where  it  still  pierced 
through  the  thick  crust  of  the  middle  ages.  As  for  the 
Celtic  layer,  no  specimens  were  any  longer  to  be  found,  even 
when  sinking  wells. 

Fifty  years  later,  when  the  Renaissance  began  to  mingle 
with  this  unity  which  was  so  severe  and  yet  so  varied,  the 
dazzling  luxury  of  its  fantasies  and  systems,  its  debasements 
of  Roman  round  arches,  Greek  columns,  and  Gothic  bases,  its 
sculpture  which  was  so  tender  and  so  ideal,  its  peculiar  taste 
for  arabesques  and  acanthus  leaves,  its  architectural  paganism, 
contemporary  with  Luther,  Paris,  was  perhaps,  still  more  beau- 
tiful, although  less  harmonious  to  the  eye,  and  to  the  thought. 

But  this  splendid  moment  lasted  only  for  a  short  time ;  the 
Renaissance  was  not  impartial ;  it  did  not  content  itself  with 
building,  it  wished  to  destroy ;  it  is  true  that  it  required  the 
room.  Thus  Gothic  Paris  was  complete  only  for  a  moment. 
Saint-Jacques  de  la  Boucherie  had  barely  been  completed 
when  the  demolition  of  the  old  Louvre  was  begun. 

After  that,  the  great  city  became  more  disfigured  every  day. 
Gothic  Paris,  beneath  which  Roman  Paris  was  effaced,  was 
effaced  in  its  turn ;  but  can  any  one  say  what  Paris  has  re- 
placed it? 

There  is  the  Paris  of  Catherine  de  Medicis  at  the  Tuil- 
eries;  *  —  the  Paris  of  Henri  II.,  at  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  two  edi- 

*  We  have  seen  with  sorrow  mingled  with  indignation,  that  it  is  the 
intention  to  increase,  to  recast,  to  make  over,  that  is  to  say,  to  destroy 
this  admirable  palace.  The  architects  of  our  day  have  too  heavy  a  hand 
to  touch  these  delicate  works  of  the  Renaissance.  We  still  cherish  a 


A  BIRD'S-EYE   VIEW  OF  PARIS.  145 

fices  still  in  fine  taste ;  —  the  Paris  of  Henri  IV.,  at  the  Place 
Royale :  fa9ades  of  brick  with  stone  corners,  and  slated  roofs, 
tri-colored  houses  ;  —  the  Paris  of  Louis  XIII.,  at  the  Val-de- 
Grace :  a  crushed  and  squat  architecture,  with  vaults  like 
basket-handles,  and  something  indescribably  pot-bellied  in  the 
column,  and  thickset  in  the  dome ;  —  the  Paris  of  Louis  XIV., 
in  the  Invalides  :  grand,  rich,  gilded,  cold ;  —  the  Paris  of  Louis 
XV.,  in  Saint-Sulpice :  volutes,  knots  of  ribbon,  clouds,  vermi- 
celli and  chiccory  leaves,  all  in  stone ;  —  the  Paris  of  Louis 
XVI.,  in  the  Pantheon  :•  Saint  Peter  of  Rome,  badly  copied  (the 
edifice  is  awkwardly  heaped  together,  which  has  not  amended 
its  lines) ;  —  the  Paris  of  the  Republic,  in  the  School  of  Medi- 
cine :  a  poor  Greek  and  Roman  taste,  which  resembles  the 
Coliseum  or  the  Parthenon  as  the  constitution  of  the  year  III., 
resembles  the  laws  of  Minos,  —  it  is  called  in  architecture, 
"  the  Messidor  *  taste ;  —  the  Paris  of  Xapoleon  in  the  Place 
Vendome  :  this  one  is  sublime,  a  column  of  bronze  made  of 
cannons ;  —  the  Paris  of  the  Restoration,  at  the  Bourse :  a 
very  white  colonnade  supporting  a  very  smooth  frieze;  the 
whole  is  square  and  cost  twenty  millions. 

To  each  of  these  characteristic  monuments  there  is  attached 
by  a  similarity  of  taste,  fashion,  and  attitude,  a  certain  num- 
ber of  houses  scattered  about  in  different  quarters  and  which 
the  e}res  of  the  connoisseur  easily  distinguishes  and  furnishes 
with  a  date.  When  one  knows  how  to  look,  one  finds  the 
spirit  of  a  century,  and  the  physiognomy  of  a  king,  even  in 
the  knocker  on  a  door. 

The  Paris  of  the  present  day  has  then,  no  general  physiog- 

hope  that  they  will  not  dare.  Moreover,  this  demolition  of  the  Tuileries 
now,  would  be  not  only  a  brutal  deed  of  violence,  which  would  make  a 
drunken  vandal  blush  —  it  would  be  an  act  of  treason.  The  Tuileries  is 
not  simply  a  masterpiece  of  the  art  of  the  sixteenth  century,  it  is  a  page 
of  the  history  of  the  nineteenth.  This  palace  no  longer  belongs  to  the 
king,  but  to  the  people.  Let  us  leave  it  as  it  is.  Our  revolution  has  twice 
set  its  seal  upon  its  front.  On  one  of  its  two  facades,  there  are  the  can- 
non-balls of  the  10th  of  August;  on  the  other,  the  balls  of  the  29th  of 
July.  It  is  sacred.  Paris,  April  7,  1831.  (Note  to  theffth  edition.) 

*  The  tenth  month  of  the  French  republican  calendar,  from  the  19th 
of  June  to  the  18th  of  July.  ' 


146  NOTRE-DAME. 

nomy.  It  is  a  collection  of  specimens  of  many  centuries,  and 
the  finest  have  disappeared.  The  capital  grows  only  in 
houses,  and  what  houses !  At  the  rate  at  which  Paris  is  now 
proceeding,  it  will  renew  itself  every  fifty  years. 

Thus  the  historical  significance  of  its  architecture  is  being 
effaced  every  day.  Monuments  are  becoming  rarer  and  rarer, 
and  one  seems  to  see  them  gradually  engulfed,  by  the  flood 
of  houses.  Our  fathers  had  a  Paris  of  stone;  our  sons  will 
have  one  of  plaster. 

So  far  as  the  modern  monuments  -of  new  Paris  are  con- 
cerned, we  would  gladly  be  excused  from  mentioning  them. 
It  is  not  that  we  do  not  admire  them  as  they  deserve.  The 
Saihte-Genevieve  of  M.  Soufflot  is  certainly  the  finest  Savoy 
cake  that  has  ever  been  made  in  stone.  The  Palace  of  the 
Legion  of  Honor  is  also  a  very  distinguished  bit  of  pastry. 
The  dome  of  the  wheat  market  is  an  English  jockey  cap,  on  a 
grand  scale.  The  towers  of  Saint-Sulpice  are  two  huge  clari- 
nets, and  the  form  is  as  good  as  any  other ;  the  telegraph, 
contorted  and  grimacing,  forms  an  admirable  accident  upon 
their  roofs.  Saint-Roch  has  a  door  which,  for  magnificence, 
is  comparable  only  to  that  of  Saint-Thomas  d'Aquin.  It  has, 
also,  a  crucifixion  in  high  relief,  in  a  cellar,  with  a  sun  of 
gilded  wood.  These  things  are  fairly  marvellous.  The  lan- 
tern of  the  labyrinth  of  the  Jardin  des  Plantes  is  also  very 
ingenious. 

As  for  the  Palace  of  the  Bourse,  which  is  Greek  as  to  its  col- 
onnade, Roman  in  the  round  arches  of  its  doors  and  windows, 
of  the  Renaissance  by  virtue  of  its  flattened  vault,  it  is  indu- 
bitably a  very  correct  and  very  pure  monument ;  the  proof 
is  that  it  is  crowned  with  an  attic,  such  as  was  never  seen  in 
Athens,  a  beautiful,  straight  line,  gracefully  broken  here  and 
there  by  stovepipes.  Let  us  <idd  that  if  it  is  according  to 
rule  that  the  architecture  of  a  building  should  be  adapted  to 
its  purpose  in  such  a  manner  that  this  purpose  shall  be  imme- 
diately apparent  from  the  mere  aspect  of  the  building,  one 
cannot  be  too  much  amazed  at  a  structure  which  might  be 
indifferently  —  the  palace  of  a  king,  a  chamber  of  communes, 
a  town-hall,  a  college,  a  riding-school,  an  academy,  a  ware- 


A   BIRD'S-EYE   VIEW  OF  PARIS.  147 

house,  a  court-house,  a  museum,  a  barracks,  a  sepulchre,  a 
temple,  or  a  theatre.  However,  it  is  an  Exchange.  An  edi- 
fice ought  to  be,  moreover,  suitable  to  the  climate.  This  one 
is  evidently  constructed  expressly  for  our  cold  and  rainy  skies. 
It  has  a  roof  almost  as  flat  as  roofs  in  the  East,  which  involves 
sweeping  the  roof  in  winter,  when  it  snows ;  and  of  course 
roofs  are  made  to  be  swept.  As  for  its  purpose,  of  which  we 
just  spoke,  it  fulfils  it  to  a  marvel ;  it  is  a  bourse  in  France 
as  it  would  have  been  a  temple  in  Greece.  It  is  true  that  the 
architect  was  at  a  good  deal  of  trouble  to  conceal  the  clock 
face,  which  would  have  destroyed  the  purity  of  the  fine  lines 
of  the  fagade ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  we  have  that  colonnade 
which  circles  round,  the  edifice  and  under  which,  on  days  of 
high  religious  ceremony,  the  theories  of  the  stock-brokers  and 
the  courtiers  of  commerce  can  be  developed  so  majestically. 

These  are  very  superb  structures.  Let  us  add  a  quantity 
of  fine,  amusing,  and  varied  streets,  like  the  Sue  de  Rivoli, 
and  I  do  not  despair  of  Paris  presenting  to  the  eye,  when 
viewed  from  a  balloon,  that  richness  of  line,  that  opulence 
of  detail,  that  diversity  of  aspect,  that  grandiose  something 
in  the  simple,  and  unexpected  in  the  beautiful,  which  charac- 
terizes a  checker-board. 

However,  admirable  as  the  Paris  of  to-day  may  seem  to 
you,  reconstruct  the  Paris  of  the  fifteenth  century,  call  it  up 
before  you  in  thought ;  look  at  the  sky  athwart  that  surpris- 
ing forest  of  spires,  towers,  and  belfries;  spread  out  in  the 
centre  of  the  city,  tear  away  at  the  point  of  the  islands,  fold 
at  the  arches  of  the  bridges,  the  Seine,  with  its  broad  green 
and  yellow  expanses,  more  variable  than  the  skin  of  a  serpenf ; 
project  clearly  against  an  azure  horizon  the  Gothic  profile  of 
this  ancient  Paris.  Make  its  contour  float  in  a  winter's  mist 
which  clings  to  its  numerous  chimneys ;  drown  it  in  profound 
night  and  watch  the  odd  play  of  lights  and  shadows  in  that 
sombre  labyrinth  of  edifices  ;  cast  upon  it  a  ray  of  light  which 
shall  vaguely  outline  it  and  cause  to  emerge  from  the  fog  the 
great  heads  of  the  towers;  or  take  that  black  silhouette 
again,  enliven  with  shadow  the  thousand  acute  angles  of  the 
spires  and  gables,  and  make  it  start  out  more  toothed  than  a 


148  NOTRE-DAME. 

shark's  jaw  against  a  copper-colored  western  sky,  —  and  then 
compare. 

And  if  you  wish  to  receive  of  the  ancient  city  an  impression 
with  which  the  modern  one  can  no  longer  furnish  you,  climb 
—  on  the  morning  of  some  grand  festival,  beneath  the  rising 
sun  of  Easter  or  of  Pentecost  —  climb  upon  some  elevated 
point,  whence  you  command  the  entire  capital ;  and  be  pres- 
ent at  the  wakening  of  the  chimes.  Behold,  at  a  signal  given 
from  heaven,  for  it  is  the  sun  which  gives  it,  all  those 
churches  quiver  simultaneously.  First  come  scattered  strokes, 
running  from  one  church  to  another,  as  when  musicians  give 
warning  that  they  are  about  to  begin.  Then,  all  at  once, 
behold !  —  for  it  seems  at  times,  as  though  the  ear  also  pos- 
sessed a  sight  of  its  own,  —  behold,  rising  from  each  bell 
tower,  something  like  a  column  of  sound,  a  cloud  of  har- 
mony. First,  the  vibration  of  each  bell  mounts  straight 
upwards,  pure  and,  so  to  speak,  isolated  from  the  others, 
into  the  splendid  morning  sky ;  then,  little  by  little,  as  they 
swell  they  melt  together,  mingle,  are  lost  in  each  other,  and 
amalgamate  in  a  magnificent  concert.  It  is  no  longer  any-  * 
thing  but  a  mass  of  sonorous  vibrations  incessantly  sent  forth 
from  the  numerous  belfries ;  floats,  undulates,  bounds,  whirls 
over  the  city,  and  prolongs  far  beyond  the  horizon  the  deafen- 
ing circle  of  its  oscillations. 

Nevertheless,  this  sea  of  harmony  is  not  a  chaos ;  great  and 
profound  as  it  is,  it  has  not  lost  its  transparency ;  you  behold 
the  windings  of  each  group  of  notes  which  escapes  from  the 
belfries.  You  can  follow  the  dialogue,  by  turns  grave  and 
shrill,  of  the  treble  and  the  bass ;  you  can  see  the  octaves 
leap  from  one  tower  to  another ;  you  watch  them  spring  forth, 
winged,  light,  and  whistling,  from  the  silver  bell,  to  fall 
broken  and  limping  from  the  bell  of  wood ;  you  admire  in  their 
midst  the  rich  gamut  which  incessantly  ascends  and  re-ascends 
the  seven  bells  of  Saint-Eustache ;  you  see  light  and  rapid 
notes  running  across  it,  executing  three  or  four  luminous  zig- 
zags, and  vanishing  like  flashes  of  lightning.  Yonder  is  the 
Abbey  of  Saint  Martin,  a  shrill,  cracked  singer;  here  the 
gruff  and  gloomy  voice  of  the  Bastille;  at  the  other  end, 


A   BIRD'S-EYE   VIEW  OF  PARIS.  149 

the  great  tower  of  the  Louvre,  with  its  bass.  The  royal 
chime  of  the  palace  scatters  on  all  sides,  and  without  relax- 
ation, resplendent  trills,  upon  which  fall,  at  regular  intervals, 
the  heavy  strokes  from  the  belfry  of  Notre-Dame,  which 
makes  them  sparkle  like  the  anvil  under  the  hammer.  At 
intervals  you  behold  the  passage  of  sounds  of  all  forms  which 
come  from  the  triple  peal  of  Saint-Germaine  des  Pres.  Then, 
again,  from  time  to  time,  this  mass  of  sublime  noises  opens 
and  gives  passage  to  the  beats  of  the  Ave  Maria,  which  bursts 
forth  and  sparkles  like  an  aigrette  of  stars.  Below,  in  the 
very  depths  of  the  concert,  you  confusedly  distinguish  the 
interior  chanting  of  the  churches,  which  exhales  through  the 
vibrating  pores  of  their  vaulted  roofs. 

Assuredly,  this  is  an  opera  which  it  is  worth  the  trouble  of 
listening  to.  Ordinarily,  the  noise  which  escapes  from  Paris 
by  day  is  the  city  speaking ;  by  night,  it  is  the  city  breath- 
ing^ in  this  case,  it  is  the  city  singing.  Lend  an  ear,  then, 
to  this  concert  of  bell  towers ;  spread  over  all  the  murmur 
of  half  a  million  men,  the  eternal  plaint  of  the  river,  the 
-  infinite  breathings  of  the  wind,  the  grave  and  distant  quartette 
of  the  four  forests  arranged  upon  the  hills,  on  the  horizon, 
like  immense  stacks  of  organ  pipes ;  extinguish,  as  in  a  half 
shade,  all  that  is  too  hoarse  and  too  shrill  about  the  central 
chime,  and  say  whether  you  know  anything  in  the  world  more 
rich  and  joyful,  more  golden,  more  dazzling,  than  this  tumult 
of  bells  and  chimes;  —  than  this  furnace  of  music,  — than 
these  ten  thousand  brazen  voices  chanting  simultaneously  in 
the  flutes  of  stone,  three  hundred  feet  high, —than  this  city 
which  is  no  longer  anything  but  an  orchestra, — than  this 
symphony  which  produces  the  noise  of  a  tempest. 


BOOK   FOURTH. 


CHAPTER  I. 

GOOD    SOULS. 

SIXTEEN  years  previous  to  the  epoch  when  this  story  takes 
place,  one  fine  morning,  on  Quasimodo  Sunday,  a  living  creat- 
ure had  been  deposited,  after  mass,  in  the  church  of  Notre- 
Dame,  on  the  wooden  bed  securely  fixed  in  the  vestibule  on 
the  left,  opposite  that  great  image  of  Saint  Christopher, 
which  the  figure  of  Messire  Antoine  des  Essarts,  chevalier, 
carved  in  stone,  had  been  gazing  at  on  his  knees  since  1413, 
when  they  took  it  into  their  heads  to  overthrow  the  saint  and 
the  faithful  follower.  Upon  this  bed  of  wood  it  was  custom- 
ary to  expose  foundlings  for  public  charity.  Whoever  cared 
to  take  them  did  so.  In  front  of  the  wooden  bed  was  a  cop- 
per basin  for  alms. 

The  sort  of  living  being  which  lay  upon  that  plank  on  the 
morning  of  Quasimodo,  in  the  year  of  the  Lord,  1467,  appeared 
to  excite  to  a  high  degree,  the  curiosity  of  the  numerous 
group  which  had  congregated  about  the  wooden  bed.  The 
group  was  formed  for  the  most  part  of  the  fair  sex.  Hardly 
any  one  was  there  except  old  women. 

150 


GOOD    SOULS.  151 

In  the  first  row,  and  among  those  who  were  most  bent  over 
the  bed,  four  were  noticeable,  who,  from  their  gray  cagoule, 
a  sort  of  cassock,  were  recognizable  as  attached  to  some  devout 
sisterhood.  I  do  not  see  why  history  has  not  transmitted  to 
posterity  the  names  of  these  four  discreet  and  venerable 
damsels.  They  were  Agnes  la  Herme,  Jehanne  de  la  Tarme, 
Henriette  la  Gaultiere,  Gauchere  la  Violette,  all  four  widows, 
all  four  dames  of  the  Chapel  iltienne  Haudry,  who  had  quitted 
their  house  with  the  permission  of  their  mistress,  and  in  con- 
formity with  the  statutes  of  Pierre  d'Ailly,  in  order  to  come 
and  hear  the  sermon. 

However,  if  these  good  Haudriettes  were,  for  the  moment, 
complying  with  the  statutes  of  Pierre  d'Ailly,  they  certainly 
violated  with  joy  those  of  Michel  de  Brache,  and  the  Cardi- 
nal of  Pisa,  which  so  inhumanly  enjoined  silence  upon  them. 

"What  is  this,  sister?"  said  Agnes  to  Gauchere,  gazing  at 
the  little  creature  exposed,  which  was  screaming  and  writhing 
on  the  wooden  bed,  terrified  by  so  many  glances. 

"What  is  to  become  of  us,"  said  Jehanne,  "if  that  is  the 
way  children  are  made  now?" 

"  I'm  not  learned  in  the  matter  of  children, "  resumed  Agnes, 
"but  it  must  be  a  sin  to  look  at  this  one." 

"  'Tis  not  a  child,  Agnes." 

"'Tis  an  abortion  of  a  monkey,"  remarked  Gauchere. 

"'Tis  a  miracle,"  interposed  Henriette  la  Gaultiere. 

"Then,"  remarked  Agnes,  "it  is  the  third  since  the  Sunday 
of  the  Lcetare :  for,  in  less  than  a  week,  we  had  the  miracle  of 
the  mocker  of  pilgrims  divinely  punished  by  Notre-Dame 
d'Aubervilliers,  and  that  was  the  second  miracle  within  a 
month. 

"This  pretended  foundling  is  a  real  monster  of  abomina- 
tion," resumed  Jehanne. 

"He  yells  loud  enough  to  deafen  a  chanter,"  continued  Gau- 
chere. "Hold  your  tongue,  you  little  howler!  " 

"To  think  that  Monsieur  of  Keims  sent  this  enormity 
to  Monsieur  of  Paris,"  added  la  Gaultiere,  clasping  her 
hands. 

"I  imagine,"  said  Agnes  la  Herme,  "that  it  is  a  beast,  an 


152  NOTRE-DAME. 

animal,  —  the  fruit  of  a  Jew  and  a  sow  ;  something  not  Chris- 
tian, in  short,  which  ought  to  be  thrown  into  the  fire  or  into 
the  water." 

"I  really  hope,"  resumed  la  Gaultiere,  "that  nobody  will 
apply  for  it." 

"  Ah,  good  heavens  ! "  exclaimed  Agnes ;  "  those  poor  nurses 
yonder  in  the  foundling  asylum,  which  forms  the  lower  end  of 
the  lane  as  you  go  to  the  river,  just  beside  Monseigneur  the 
bishop !  what  if  this  little  monster  were  to  be  carried  to  them 
to  suckle  ?  I'd  rather  give  suck  to  a  vampire." 

"How  innocent  that  poor  la  Herme  is  ! "  resumed  Jehanne ; 
"  don't  you  see,  sister,  that  this  little  monster  is  at  least  four 
years  old,  and  that  he  would  have  less  appetite  for  your  breast 
than  for  a  turnspit." 

The  "little  monster"  we  should  find  it  difficult  ourselves 
to  describe  him  otherwise,  was,  in  fact,  not  a  new-born 
child.  It  was  a  very  angular  and  very  lively  little  mass,  im- 
prisoned in  its  linen  sack,  stamped  with  the  cipher  of  Messire 
Guillaume  Chartier,  then  bishop  of  Paris,  with  a  head  project- 
ing. That  head  was  deformed  enough ;  one  beheld  only  a 
forest  of  red  hair,  one  eye,  a  mouth,  and  teeth.  The  eye 
wept,  the  mouth  cried,  and  the  teeth  seemed  to  ask  only  to 
be  allowed  to  bite.  The  whole  struggled  in  the  sack,  to  the 
great  consternation  of  the  crowd,  which  increased  and  was 
renewed  incessantly  around  it. 

Dame  Alo'ise  de  Gondelaurier,  a  rich  and  noble  woman,  who 
held  by  the  hand  a  pretty  girl  about  five  or  six  years  of  age, 
and  dragged  a  long  veil  about,  suspended  to  the  golden  horn  of 
her  headdress,  halted  as  she  passed  the  wooden  bed,  and  gazed 
for  a  moment  at  the  wretched  creature,  while  her  charming 
little  daughter,  Fleur-de-Lys  de  Gondelaurier,  spelled  out  with 
her  tiny,  pretty  finger,  the  permanent  inscription  attached  to 
the  wooden  bed :  "  Foundlings." 

"Really,"  said  the.  dame,  turning  away  in  disgust,  "I 
thought  that  they  only  exposed  children  here." 

She  turned  her  back,  throwing  into  the  basin  a  silver  florin, 
which  rang  among  the  liards,  and  made  the  poor  goodwives  of 
the  chapel  of  Etienne  Haudry  open  their  eyes. 


GOOD  SOULS.  153 

A  moment  later,  the  grave  and  learned  Kobert  Mistricolle, 
the  king's  protonotary,  passed,  with  an  enormous  missal  under 
one  arm  and  his  wife  on  the  other  (Damoiselle  Guillemette  la 
Mairesse),  having  thus  by  his  side  his  two  regulators,  —  spir- 
itual and  temporal. 

"  Foundling ! "  he  said,  after  examining  the  object ;  "  found, 
apparently,  on  the  banks  of  the  river  Phlegethon." 

"  One  can  only  see  one  eye,"  observed  Damoiselle  Guille- 
mette ;  "  there  is  a  wart  on  the  other." 

"  It's  not  a  wart,"  returned  Master  Eobert  Mistricolle,  "  it 
is  an  egg  which  contains  another  demon  exactly  similar,  who 
bears  another  little  egg  which  contains  another  devil,  and 
so  on." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?  "  asked  Guillemette  la  Mairesse. 

"I  know  it  pertinently,"  replied  the  protonotary. 

"  Monsieur  le  protonotare,"  asked  Gauchere,  "  what  do  you 
prognosticate  of  this  pretended  foundling  ?  " 

"  The  greatest  misfortunes,"  replied  Mistricollo. 

"  Ah !  good  heavens  ! "  said  an  old  woman  among  the  spec- 
tators, "  and.  that  besides  our  having  had  a  considerable  pesti- 
lence last  year,  and  that  they  say  that  the  English  are  going 
to  disembark  in  a  company  at  Harfleur." 

"  Perhaps  that  will  prevent  the  queen  from  coming  to  Paris 
in  the  month  of  September,"  interposed  another ;  "  trade  is  so 
bad  already." 

"My  opinion  is,"  exclaimed  Jehanne  de  la  Tarme,  "that  it 
would  be  better  for  the  louts  of  Paris,  if  this  little  magician 
were  put  to  bed  on  a  fagot  than  on  a  plank." 

"  A  fine,  flaming  fagot,"  added  the  old  woman. 

"  It  would  be  more  prudent,"  said  Mistricolle 

For  several  minutes,  a  young  priest  had  been  listening  to 
the  reasoning  of  the  Haudriettes  and  the  sentences  of  the 
notary.  He  had  a  severe  face,  with  a  large  brow,  a  profound 
glance.  He  thrust  the  crowd  silently  aside,  scrutinized  the 
"  little  magician,"  and  stretched  out  his  hand  upon  him.  It  was 
high  time,  for  all  the  devotees  were  already  licking  their  chops 
over  the  "  fine,  flaming  fagot." 

"  I  adopt  this  child,"  said  the  priest. 


154 


NOTRE-DAME. 


He  took  it  in  his  cassock  and  carried  it  off.  The  spectators 
followed  him  with  frightened  glances.  A  moment  later,  he  had 
disappeared  through  the  "  Ked  Door,"  which  then  led  from  the 
church  to  the  cloister. 

When  the  first  surprise  was  over,  Jehanne  de  la  Tarme 
bent  down  to  the  ear  of  la  Gaultiere, — 

"  I  told  you  so,  sister,  —  that  young  clerk,  Monsieur  Claude 
Frollo,  is  a  sorcerer." 


CHAPTER  IL 

CLAUDE    FROLLO. 

IN  fact,  Claude  Frollo  was  no  common  person. 

He  belonged  to  one  of  those  middle-class  families  which 
were  called  indifferently,  in  the  impertinent  language  of  the 
last  century,  the  high  bouryeoise  or  the  petty  nobility.  This 
family  had  inherited  from  the  brothers  Paclet  the  fief  of  Tire- 
chappe,  which  was  dependent  upon  the  Bishop  of  Paris,  and 
whose  twenty-one  houses  had  been  in  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury the  object  of  so  many  suits  before  the  official.  As  pos- 
sessor of  this  fief,  Claude  Frollo  was  one  of  the  twenty-seven 
seigneurs  keeping  claim  to  a  manor  in  fee  in  Paris  and  its 
suburbs;  and  for  a  long  time,  his  name  was  to  be  seen  in- 
scribed in  this  quality,  between  the  Hotel  de  Tancarville,  be- 
longing to  Master  Francois  Le  Eez,  and  the  college  of  Tours, 
in  the  records  deposited  at  Saint  Martin  des  Champs. 

Claude  Frollo  had  been  destined  from  infancy,  by  his  pa- 
rents, to  the  ecclesiastical  profession.  He  had  been  taught  to 
read  in  Latin ;  he  had  been  trained  to  keep  his  eyes  on  the 
ground  and  to  speak  low.  While  still  a  child,  his  father  had 
cloistered  him  in  the  college  of  Torchi  in  the  University. 
There  it  was  that  he  had  grown  up,  on  the  missal  and  the 
lexicon. 

Moreover,  he  was  a  sad,  grave,  serious  child,  who  studied 
ardently,  and  learned  quickly ;  he  never  uttered  a  loud  cry  in 
recreation  hour,  mixed  but  little  in  the  bacchanals  of  the  Rue 
du  Fouarre,  did  not  know  what  it  was  to  dare  alapas  et  capillos 

155 


156  NOTRK-DAME. 

laniare,  and  had  cut  no  figure  in  that  revolt  of  14G3,  which 
the  annalists  register  gravely,  under  the  title  of  "  The  sixth 
trouble  of  the  University."  He  seldom  rallied  the  poor  stu- 
dents of  Montaigu  on  the  cappettes  from  which  they  derived 
their  name,  or  the  bursars  of  the  college  of  Dormans  on  their 
shaved  tonsure,  and  their  surtout  parti-colored  of  bluish-green, 
blue,  and  violet  cloth,  azurini  coloris  et  bruni,  as  says  the  char- 
ter of  the  Cardinal  des  Quatre-Couronnes. 

On  the  other  hand,  he  was  assiduous  at  the  great  and  the 
small  schools  of  the  Rue  Saint  Jean  de  Beauvais.  The  first 
pupil  whom  the  Abbe  de  Saint  Pierre  de  Val,  at  the  moment 
of  beginning  his  reading  on  canon  law,  always  perceived,  glued 
to  a  pillar  of  the  school  Saint-Vendregesile,  opposite  his  ros- 
trum, was  Claude  Frollo,  armed  with  his  horn  ink-bottle,  bit- 
ing his  pen,  scribbling  on  his  threadbare  knee,  and,  in  winter, 
blowing  on  his  fingers.  The  first  auditor  whom  Messire  Miles 
d'Isliers,  doctor  in  decretals,  saw  arrive  every  Monday  morn- 
ing, all  breathless,  at  the  opening  of  the  gates  of  the  school 
of  the  Chef-Saint-Denis,  was  Claude  Frollo.  Thus,  at  sixteen 
years  of  age,  the  young  clerk  might  have  held  his  own,  in 
mystical  theology,  against  a  father  of  the  church ;  in  canoni- 
cal theology,  against  a  father  of  the  councils ;  in  scholastic 
theology,  against  a  doctor  of  Sorbonne. 

Theology  conquered,  he  had  plunged  into  decretals.  From 
the  "  Master  of  Sentences,"  he  had  passed  to  the  "  Capitularies 
of  Charlemagne ;  "  and  he  had  devoured  in  succession,  in  his  ap- 
petite for  science,  decretals  upon  decretals,  those  of  Theodore, 
Bishop  of  Hispalus ;  those  of  Bouchard,  Bishop  of  Worms  ; 
those  of  Yves,  Bishop  of  Chartres;  next  the  decretal  of 
Gratian,  which  succeeded  the  capitularies  of  Charlemagne  ; 
then  the  collection  of  Gregory  IX.;  then  the  Epistle  of 
Superspecula,  of  Honorius  III.  He  rendered  clear  and  famil- 
iar to  himself  that  vast  and  tumultuous  period  of  civil  law 
and  canon  law  in  conflict  and  at  strife  with  each  other,  in  the 
chaos  of  the  Middle  Ages, —  a  period  which  Bishop  Theodore 
opens  in  618,  and  which  Pope  Gregory  closes  in  1227. 

Decretals  digested,  he  flung  himself  upon  medicine,  on  the 
liberal  arts.  He  studied  the  science  of  herbs,  the  science  of 


CLAUDE  FEOLLO.  157 

unguents;  he  became  an  expert  in  fevers  and  in  contusions, 
in  sprains  and  abcesses.  Jacques  d'  Espars  would  have 
received  him  as  a  physician ;  Richard  Hellain,  as  a  surgeon. 
He  also  passed  through  all  the  degrees  of  licentiate,  master, 
and  doctor  of  arts.  He  studied  the  languages,  Latin,  Greek, 
Hebrew,  a  triple  sanctuary  then  very  little  frequented.  His 
was  a  veritable  fever  for  acquiring  and  hoarding,  in  the  mat- 
ter of  science.  At  the  age  of  eighteen,  he  had  made  his  way 
through  the  four  faculties ;  it  seemed  to  the  young  man  that 
life  had  but  one  sole  object :  learning. 

It  was  towards  this  epoch,  that  the  excessive  heat  of  the 
summer  of  1466  caused  that  grand  outburst  of  the  plague 
which  carried  off  more  than  forty  thousand  souls  in  the  vi- 
comty  of  Paris,  and  among  others,  as  Jean  de  Troyes  states, 
"  Master  Arnoul,  astrologer  to  the  king,  who  was  a  very  fine 
man,  both  wise  and  pleasant."  The  rumor  spread  in  the  Uni- 
versity that  the  Rue  Tirechappe  was  especially  devastated  by 
the  malady.  It  was  there  that  Claude's  parents  resided,  in 
the  midst  of  their  fief.  The  young  scholar  rushed  in  great 
alarm  to  the  paternal  mansion.  When  he  entered  it,  he  found 
that  both  father  and  mother  had  died  on  the  preceding  day. 
A  very  young  brother  of  his,  who  was  in  swaddling  clothes, 
was  still  alive  and  crying  abandoned  in  his  cradle.  This  was 
all  that  remained  to  Claude  of  his  family ;  the  young  man 
took  the  child  under  his  arm  and  went  off  in  a  pensive  mood. 
Up  to  that  moment,  he  had  lived  only  in  science ;  he  now 
began  to  live  in  life. 

This  catastrophe  was  a  crisis  in  Claude's  existence.  Or- 
phaned, the  eldest,  head  of  the  family  at  the  age  of  nineteen, 
he  felt  himself  rudely  recalled  from  the  reveries  of  school  to 
the  realities  of  this  world.  Then,  moved  with  pity,  he  was 
seized  with  passion  and  devotion  towards  that  child,  his 
brother;  a  sweet  and  strange  thing  was  a  human  affection  to 
him,  who  had  hitherto  loved  his  books  alone. 

This  affection  developed  to  a  singular  point ;  in  a  soul  so 
new,  it  was  like  a  first  love.  Separated  since  infancy  from 
his  parents,  whom  he  had  hardly  known  ;  cloistered  and  im- 
mured, as  it  were,  in  his  books  ;  eager  above  all  things  to  study 


158  NOTRE-DAME. 

and  to  learn;  exclusively  attentive  up  to  that  time,  to  his  in- 
telligence which  broadened  in  science,  to  his  imagination, 
which  expanded  in  letters,  —  the  poor  scholar  had  not  yet  had 
time  to  feel  the  place  of  his  heart. 

This  young  brother,  without  mother  or  father,  this  little 
child  which  had  fallen  abruptly  from  heaven  into  his  arms, 
made  a  new  man  of  him.  He  perceived  that  there  was  some- 
thing else  in  the  world  besides  the  speculations  of  the  Sor- 
bonne,  and  the  verses  of  Homer  ;  that  man  needed  affections  ; 
that  life  without  tenderness  and  without  love  was  only  a  set 
of  dry,  shrieking,  and  rending  wheels.  Only,  he  imagined,  for 
he  was  at  the  age  when  illusions  are  as  yet  replaced  only  by 
illusions,  that  the  affections  of  blood  and  family  were  the  sole 
ones  necessary,  and  that  a  little  brother  to  love  sufficed  to  fill 
an  entire  existence. 

He  threw  himself,  therefore,  into  the  love  for  his  little 
Jehan  with  the  passion  of  a  character  already  profound, 
ardent,  concentrated;  that  poor  frail  creature,  pretty,  fair- 
haired,  rosy,  and  curly,  —  that  orphan  with  another  orphan 
for  his  only  support,  touched  him  to  the  bottom  of  his  heart ; 
and  grave  thinker  as  he  was,  he  set  to  meditating  upon  Jehan. 
with  an  infinite  compassion.  He  kept  watch  and  ward  over 
him  as  over  something  very  fragile,  and  very  worthy  of  care. 
He  was  more  than  a  brother  to  the  child ;  he  became  a  mother 
to  him. 

Little  Jehan  had  lost  his  mother  while  he  was  still  at  the 
breast ;  Claude  gave  him  to  a  nurse.  Besides  the  fief  of 
Tirechappe,  he  had  inherited  from  his  father  the  fief  of 
Moulin,  which  was  a  dependency  of  the  square  tower  of  Gen- 
tilly  ;  it  was  a  mill  on  a  hill,  near  the  chateau  of  Winchestre 
(Bicetre).  There  was  a  miller's  wife  there  who  was  nursing  a 
fine  child ;  it  was  not  far  from  the  university,  and  Claude  car- 
ried the  little  Jehan  to  her  in  his  own  arms. 

From  that  time  forth,  feeling  that  he  had  a  burden  to  bear, 
he  took  life  very  seriously.  The  thought  of  his  little  brother 
became  not  only  his  recreation,  but  the  object  of  his  studies. 
He  resolved  to  consecrate  himself  entirely  to  a  future  for 
which  he  was  responsible  in  the  sight  of  God,  and  never  to 


CLAUDE  FROLLO.  159 

have  any  other  wife,  any  other  child  than  the  happiness  and 
fortune  of  his  brother.  Therefore,  he  attached  himself  more 
closely  than  ever  to  the  clerical  profession.  His  merits,  his 
learning,  his  quality  of  immediate  vassal  of  the  Bishop  of 
Paris,  threw  the  doors  of  the  church  Avide  open  to  him.  At 
the  age  of  twenty,  by  special  dispensation  of  the  Holy  See, 
he  was  a  priest,  and  served  as  the  youngest  of  the  chaplains 
of  Xotre-Dame  the  altar  which  is  called,  because  of  the  late 
mass  which  is  said  there,  altar e  piyrorum. 

There,  plunged  more  deeply  than  ever  in  his  dear  books, 
which  he  quitted  only  to  run  for  an  hour  to  the  fief  of  Moulin, 
this  mixture  of  learning  and  austerity,  so  rare  at  his  age,  had 
promptly  acquired  for  him  the  respect  and  admiration  of  the 
monastery.  From  the  cloister,  his  reputation  as  a  learned  man 
had  passed  to  the  people,  among  whom  it  had  changed  a  little, 
a  frequent  occurrence  at  that  time,  into  reputation  as  a  sorcerer. 

It  was  at  the  moment  when  he  was  returning,  on  Quasimodo 
day,  from  saying  his  mass  at  the  Altar  of  the  Lazy,  which  was 
by  the  side  of  the  door  leading  to  the  nave  on  the  right,  near 
the  image  of  the  Virgin,  that  his  attention  had  been  attracted 
by  the  group  of  old  women  chattering  around  the  bed  for 
foundlings. 

Then  it  was  that  he  approached  the  unhappy  little  creature, 
which  was  so  hated  and  so  menaced.  That  distress,  that  de- 
formity, that  abandonment,  the  thought  of  his  young  brother, 
the  idea  which  suddenly  occurred  to  him,  that  if  he  were  to 
die,  his  dear  little  Jehan  might  also  be  flung  miserably  on  the 
plank  for  foundlings,  —  all  this  had  gone  to  his  heart  simul- 
taneously ;  a  great  pity  had  moved  in  him,  and  he  had  carried 
off  the  child. 

When  he  removed  the  child  from  the  sack,  he  found  it 
greatly  deformed,  in  very  sooth.  The  poor  little  wretch  had 
a  wart  on  his  left  eye,  his  head  placed  directly  on  his  shoulders, 
his  spinal  column  was  crooked,  his  breast  bone  prominent,  and 
his  legs  bowed ;  but  he  appeared  to  be  lively ;  and  although 
it  was  impossible  to  say  in  what  language  he  lisped,  his  cry 
indicate!!  considerable  force  and  health.  Claude's  compassion 
increased  at  the  sight  of  this  ugliness ;  and  he  made  a  vow  in 


160  NOTRE-DAME. 

his  heart  to  rear  the  child  for  the  love  of  his  brother,  in  order 
that,  whatever  might  be  the  future  faults  of  the  little  Jehan, 
he  should  have  beside  him  that  charity  done  for  his  sake.  It 
was  a  sort  of  investment  of  good  works,  which  he  was  effect- 
ing in  the  name  of  his  young  brother  ;  it  was  a  stock  of  good 
works  which  he  wished  to  amass  in  advance  for  him,  in  case 
the  little  rogue  should  some  day  find  himself  short  of  that 
coin,  the  only  sort  which  is  received  at  the  toll-bar  of 
paradise. 

He  baptized  his  adopted  child,  and  gave  him  the  name  of 
Quasimodo,  either  because  he  desired  thereby  to  mark  the  day, 
when  he  had  found  him,  or  because  he  wished  to  designate  by 
that  name  to  what  a  degree  the  poor  little  creature  was  incom- 
plete, and  hardly  sketched  out.  In  fact,  Quasimodo,  blind, 
hunchbacked,  knock-kneed,  was  only  an  "  almost " 


CHAPTER    III. 

IMMANTS    PECORIS    GUSTOS,    IMMANIOR   IPSE. 

Now,  in  1482,  Quasimodo  had  grown  up.  He  had  become  a 
few  years  previously  the  bell  ringer  of  Notre-Dame,  thanks  to 
his  father  by  adoption,  Claude  Frollo,  —  who  had  become  arch- 
deacon of  Josas,  thanks  to  his  suzerain,  Messire  Louis  de  Beau- 
mont, —  who  had  become  Bishop  of  Paris,  at  the  death  of 
Guillaume  Chartier  in  1472,  thanks  to  his  patron,  Olivier  Le 
Daim,  barber  to  Louis  XL,  king  by  the  grace  of  God. 

So  Quasimodo  was  the  ringer  of  the  chimes  of  Notre-Dame. 

In  the  course  of  time  there  had  been  formed  a  certain  pecu- 
liarly intimate  bond  which  united  the  ringer  to  the  church. 
Separated  forever  from  the  world,  by  the  double  fatality  of 
his  unknown  birth  and  his  natural  deformity,  imprisoned  from 
his  infancy  in  that  impassable  double  circle,  the  poor  wretch 
had  grown  used  to  seeing  nothing  in  this  world  beyond  the 
religious  walls  which  had  received  him  under  their  shadow. 
Xot  re-Dame  had  been  to  him  successively,  as  he  grew  up  and 
developed,  the  egg,  the  nest,  the  house,  the  country,  the 
universe. 

There  was  certainly  a  sort  of  mysterious  and  pre-existing 
harmony  between  this  creature  and  this  church.  When,  still 
a  little  fellow,  he  had  dragged  himself  tortuously  and  by  jerks 
beneath  the  shadows  of  its  vaults,  he  seemed,  with  his  human 

161 


162  NOTRE-DAME. 

face  and  his  bestial  limbs,  the  natural  reptile  of  that  humid 
and  sombre  pavement,  upon  which  the  shadow  of  the  Roman- 
esque capitals  cast  so  many  strange  forms. 

Later  on,  the  first  time  that  he  caught  hold,  mechanically, 
of  the  ropes  to  the  towers,  and  hung  suspended  from  them, 
and  set  the  bell  to  clanging,  it  produced  upon  his  adopted 
father,  Claude,  the  effect  of  a  child  whose  tongue  is  unloosed 
and  who  begins  to  speak. 

It  is  thus  that,  little  by  little,  developing  always  in  sympa- 
thy with  the  cathedral,  living  there,  sleeping  there,  hardly 
ever  leaving  it,  subject  every  hour  to  the  mysterious  impress, 
he  came  to  resemble  it,  he  incrusted  himself  in  it,  so  to  speak, 
and  became  an  integral  part  of  it.  His  salient  angles  fitted 
into  the  retreating  angles  of  the  cathedral  (if  we  may  be 
allowed  this  figure  of  speech),  and  he  seemed  not  only  its  in- 
habitant but  more  than  that,  its  natural  tenant.  One  might 
almost  say  that  he  had  assumed  its  form,  as  the  snail  takes  on 
the  form  of  its  shell.  It  was  his  dwelling,  his  hole,  his  envel- 
ope. There  existed  between  him  and  the  old  church  so  pro- 
found an  instinctive  sympathy,  so  many  magnetic  affinities. 
so  many  material  affinities,  that  he  adhered  to  it  somewhat  as 
a  tortoise  adheres  to  its  shell.  The  rough  and  wrinkled  cathe- 
dral was  his  shell. 

It  is  useless  to  warn  the  reader  not  to  take  literally  all  the 
similes  which  we  are  obliged  to  employ  here  to  express  the 
singular,  symmetrical,  direct,  almost  consubstantial  union  of  a 
man  and  an  edifice.  It  is  equally  unnecessary  to  state  to  what 
a  degree  that  whole  cathedral  was  familiar  to  him.  after  so 
long  and  so  intimate  a  cohabitation.  That  dwelling  was  pecu- 
liar to  him.  It  had  no  depths  to  which  Quasimodo  had  not 
penetrated,  no  height  which  he  had  not  scaled.  He  often 
climbed  many  stones  up  the  front,  aided  solely  by  the  un- 
even points  of  the  carving.  The  towers,  on  whose  exterior 
surface  he  was  frequently  seen  clambering,  like  a  lizard  glid- 
ing along  a  perpendicular  wall,  those  two  gigantic  twins,  so 
lofty,  so  menacing,  so  formidable,  possessed  for  him  neither 
vertigo,  nor  terror,  nor  shocks  of  amazement. 

To  see  them  so  gentle  under  his  hand,  so  easy  to  scale,  one 


IMMANIS  PECOEIS   GUSTOS,   UIMANIOR  IPSE.      1(J3 

would  have  said  that  he  had  tamed  them.  By  dint  of  leaping, 
climbing,  gambolling  amid  the  abysses  of  the  gigantic  cathe- 
dral he  had  become,  in  some  sort,  a  monkey  and  a  goat,  like 
the  Calabrian  child  who  swims  before  he  walks,  and  plays  with 
the  sea  while  still  a  babe. 

Moreover,  it  was  not  his  body  alone  which  seemed  fashioned 
after  the  Cathedral,  but  his  mind  also.  In  what  condition 
was  that  mind  ?  What  bent  had  it  contracted,  what  form 
had  it  assumed  beneath  that  knotted  envelope,  in  that  savage 
life  ?  This  it  would  be  hard  to  determine.  Quasimodo  had 
been  born  one  eyed,  hunchbacked,  lame.  It  was  with  great 
difficulty,  and  by  dint  of  great  patience  that  Claude  Frollo  had 
succeeded  in  teaching  him  to  talk.  But  a  fatality  was  at- 
tached to  the  poor  foundling.  Bellringer  of  Notre  Dame  at 
the  age  of  fourteen,  a  new  infirmity  had  come  to  complete 
his  misfortunes  :  the  bells  had  broken  the  drums  of  his  ears ; 
he  had  become  deaf.  The  only  gate  which  nature  had  left 
wide  open  for  him  had  been  abruptly  closed,  and  forever. 

In  closing,  it  had  cut  off  the  only  ray  of  joy  and  of  light 
which  still  made  its  way  into  the  soul  of  Quasimodo.  His 
soul  fell  into  profound  night.  The  wretched  being's  misery 
became  as  incurable  and  as  complete  as  his  deformity.  Let  us 
add  that  his  deafness  rendered  him  to  some  extent  dumb. 
For,  in  order  not  to  make  others  laugh,  the  very  moment  that 
he  found  himself  to  be  deaf,  he  resolved  upon  a  silence  which 
he  only  broke  when  he  was  alone.  He  voluntarily  tied  that 
tongue  which  Claude  Frollo  had  taken  so  much  pains  to  un- 
loose. Hence,  it  came  about,  that  when  necessity  constrained 
him  to  speak,  his  tongue  was  torpid,  awkward,  and  like  a  door 
whose  hinges  have  grown  rusty. 

If  now  we  were  to  try  to  penetrate  to  the  soul  of  Quasimodo 
through  that  thick,  hard  rind ;  if  we  could  sound  the  depths 
of  that  badly  constructed  organism  ;  if  it  were  granted  to  us 
to  look  with  a  torch  behind  those  non-transparent  organs 
to  explore  the  shadowy  interior  of  that  opaque  creature,  to 
elucidate  his  obscure  corners,  his  absurd  no-thoroughfares,  and 
suddenly  to  cast  a  vivid  light  upon  the  soul  enchained  at  the 
extremity  of  that  cave,  we  should,  no  doubt,  find  the  unhappy 


164  NOTRE-DAME. 

Psyche  in  some  poor,  cramped,  and  ricketty  attitude,  like 
those  prisoners  beneath  the  Leads  of  Venice,  who  grew  old 
bent  double  in  a  stone  box  which  was  both  too  low  and  too 
short  for  them. 

It  is  certain  that  the  mind  becomes  atrophied  in  a  defective 
body.  Quasimodo  was  barely  conscious  of  a  soul  cast  in  his 
own  image,  moving  blindly  within  him.  The  impressions  of 
objects  underwent  a  considerable  refraction  before  reaching 
his  mind.  His  brain  was  a  peculiar  medium ;  the  ideas  which 
passed  through  it  issued  forth  completely  distorted.  The 
reflection  which  resulted  from  this  refraction  was,  necessarily, 
divergent  and  perverted. 

Hence  a  thousand  optical  illusions,  a  thousand  aberrations 
of  judgment,  a  thousand  deviations,  in  which  his  thought 
strayed,  now  mad,  now  idiotic. 

The  first  effect  of  this  fatal  organization  was  to  trouble  the 
glance  which  he  cast  upon  things.  He  received  hardly  any 
immediate  perception  of  them.  The  external  world  seemed 
much  farther  away  to  him  than  it  does  to  us. 

The  second  effect  of  his  misfortune  was  to  render  him 
malicious. 

He  was  malicious,  in  fact,  because  he  was  savage ;  he  was 
savage  because  he  was  ugly.  There  was  logic  in  his  nature,  as 
there  is  in  ours. 

His  strength,  so  extraordinarily  developed,  was  a  cause  of 
still  greater  malevolence :  "  Mains  puer  robustus,"  says 
Hobbes. 

This  justice  must,  however  be  rendered  to  him.  Malevo- 
lence was  not,  perhaps,  innate  in  him.  From  his  very  first 
steps  among  men,  he  had  felt  himself,  later  on  he  had  seen 
himself,  spewed  out,  blasted,  rejected.  Human  words  were, 
for  him,  always  a  raillery  or  a  malediction.  As  he  grew  up, 
he  had  found  nothing  but  hatred  around  him.  He  had  caught 
the  general  malevolence.  He  had  picked  up  the  weapon  with 
which  he  had  been  wounded. 

After  all,  he  turned  his  face  towards  men  only  with  reluc- 
tance ;  his  cathedral  was  sufficient  for  him.  It  was  peopled 
with  marble  figures, — kings,  saints,  bishops, — who  at  least 


INMANIS  PECOBIS   GUSTOS,   IMMANIOE   IPSE.      165 

did  not  burst  out  laughing  in  his  face,  and  who  gazed  upon 
him  only  with  tranquillity  and  kindliness.  The  other  statues, 
those  of  the  monsters  and  demons,  cherished  no  hatred  for 
him,  Quasimodo.  He  resembled  them  too  much  for  that. 
They  seemed  rather,  to  be  scoffing  at  other  men.  The  saints 
were  his  friends,  and  blessed  him;  the  monsters  were  his 
friends  and  guarded  him.  So  he  held  long  communion  with 
them.  He  sometimes  passed  whole  hours  crouching  before 
one  of  these  statues,  in  solitary  conversation  with  it.  If  any 
one  came,  he  fled  like  a  lover  surprised  in  his  serenade. 

And  the  cathedral  was  not  only  society  for  him,  but  the 
universe,  and  all  nature  beside.  He  dreamed  of  no  other 
hedgerows  than  the  painted  windows,  always  in  flower;  no 
other  shade  than  that  of  the  foliage  of  stone  which  spread 
out,  loaded  with  birds,  in  the  tufts  of  the  Saxon  capitals ;  of 
no  other  mountains  than  the  colossal  towers  of  the  church ;  of 
no  other  ocean  than  Paris,  roaring  at  their  bases. 

What  he  loved  above  all  else  in  the  maternal  edifice,  that 
which  aroused  his  soul,  and  made  it  open  its  poor  wings, 
which  it  kept  so  miserably  folded  in  its  cavern,  that  which 
sometimes  rendered  him  even  happy,  was  the  bells.  He 
loved  them,  fondled  them,  talked  to  them,  understood  them. 
From  the  chime  in  the  spire,  over  the  intersection  of  the  aisles 
and  nave,  to  the  great  bell  of  the  front,  he  cherished  a  ten- 
derness for  them  all.  The  central  spire  and  the  two  toAvers 
were  to  him  as  three  great  cages,  whose  birds,  reared  by  him- 
self, sang  for  him  alone.  Yet  it  was  these  very  bells  which 
had  made  him  deaf;  but  mothers  often  love  best  that  child 
which  has  caused  them  the  most  suffering. 

It  is  true  that  their  voice  was  the  only  one  which  he  could 
still  hear.  On  this  score,  the  big  bell  was  his  beloved.  It 
was  she  whom  he  preferred  out  of  all  that  family  of  noisy 
girls  which  bustled  above  him,  on  festival  days.  This  bell 
was  named  Marie.  She  was  alone  in  the  southern  tower,  with 
her  sister  Jacqueline,  a  bell  of  lesser  size,  shut  up  in  a  smaller 
cage  beside  hers.  This  Jacqueline  was  so  called  from  the 
name  of  the  wife  of  Jean  Montagu,  who  had  given  it  to  the 
church,  which  had  not  prevented  his  going  and  figuring  with- 


166  NOTRE-DAME. 

out  his  head  at  Montfaucon.  In  the  second  tower  there  were 
six  other  bells,  and,  finally,  six  smaller  ones  inhabited  the 
belfry  over  the  crossing,  with  the  wooden  bell,  which  rang 
only  between  after  dinner  on  Good  Friday  and  the  morning  of 
the  day  before  Easter.  So  Quasimodo  had  fifteen  bells  in  his 
seraglio  ;  but  big  Marie  was  his  favorite. 

No  idea  can  be  formed  of  his  delight  on  days  when  the 
grand  peal  was  sounded.  At  the  moment  when  the  arch- 
deacon dismissed  him,  and  said,  "  Go  ! "  he  mounted  the  spiral 
staircase  of  the  clock  tower  faster  than  any  one  else  could 
have  descended  it.  He  entered  perfectly  breathless  into  the 
aerial  chamber  of  the  great  bell ;  he  gazed  at  her  a  moment, 
devoutly  and  lovingly;  then  he  gently  addressed  her  and 
patted  her  with  his  hand,  like  a  good  horse,  which  is  about 
to  set  out  on  a  long  journey.  He  pitied  her  for  the  trouble 
that  she  was  about  to  suffer.  After  these  first  caresses,  he 
shouted  to  his  assistants,  placed  in  the  lower  story  of  the 
tower,  to  begin.  They  grasped  the  ropes,  the  wheel  creaked, 
the  enormous  capsule  of  metal  started  slowly  into  motion. 
Quasimodo  followed  it  with  his  glance  and  trembled.  The 
first  shock  of  the  clapper  and  the  brazen  wall  made  the  frame- 
work upon  which  it  was  mounted  quiver.  Quasimodo  vibrated 
with  the  bell. 

"  Vah  ! "  he  cried,  with  a  senseless  burst  of  laughter.  How- 
ever, the  movement  of  the  bass  was  accelerated,  and,  in  pro- 
portion as  it  described  a  wider  angle,  Quasimodo's  eye  opened 
also  more  and  more  widely,  phosphoric  and  flaming.  At 
length  the  grand  peal  began;  the  whole  tower  trembled; 
woodwork,  leads,  cut  stones,  all  groaned  at  once,  from  the 
piles  of  the  foundation  to  the  trefoils  of  its  summit.  Then 
Quasimodo  boiled  and  frothed ;  he  went  and  came ;  he  trem- 
bled from  head  to  foot  with  the  tower.  The  bell,  furious, 
running  riot,  presented  to  the  two  walls  of  the  tower  alter- 
nately its  brazen  throat,  whence  escaped  that  tempestuous 
breath,  which  is  audible  leagues  away.  Quasimodo  stationed 
himself  in  front  of  this  open  throat;  he  crouched  and  rose 
with  the  oscillations  of  the  bell,  breathed  in  this  overwhelm- 
ing breath,  gazed  by  turns  at  the  deep  place,  which  swarmed 


IMMANIS  PECORIS   CUSTOS,   IMMANIOR  IPSE.      167 

with  people,  two  hundred  feet  below  him,  and  at  that  enor- 
mous, brazen  tongue  which  came,  second  after  second,  to  howl 
in  his  ear. 

It  was  the  only  speech  which  he  understood,  the  only  sound 
which  broke  for  him  the  universal  silence.  He  swelled  out 
in  it  as  a  bird  does  in  the  sun.  All  of  a  sudden,  the  frenzy 
of  the  bell  seized  upon  him  ;  his  look  became  extraordinary ; 
he  lay  in  wait  for  the  great  bell  as  it  passed,  as  a  spider  lies 
in  wait  for  a  fly,  and  flung  himself  abruptly  upon  it,  with 
might  and  main.  Then,  suspended  above  the  abyss,  borne  to 
and  fro  by  the  formidable  swinging  of  the  bell,  he  seized  the 
brazen  monster  by  the  ear-laps,  pressed  it  between  both  knees, 
spurred  it  on  with  his  heels,  and  redoubled  the  fury  of  the 
peal  with  the  whole  shock  and  weight  of  his  body.  Mean- 
while, the  tower  trembled ;  he  shrieked  and  gnashed  his  teeth, 
his  red  hair  rose  erect,  his  breast  heaving  like  a  bellows,  his 
eye  flashed  flames,  the  monstrous  bell  neighed,  panting,  be- 
neath him ;  and  then  it  was  no  longer  the  great  bell  of  Notre 
Dame  nor  Quasimodo  :  it  was  a  dream,  a  whirlwind,  a  tempest, 
dizziness  mounted  astride  of  noise ;  a  spirit  clinging  to  a  flying 
crupper,  a  strange  centaur,  half  man,  half  bell ;  a  sort  of 
horrible  Astolphus,  borne  away  upon  a  prodigious  hippogriff 
of  living  bronze. 

The  presence  of  this  extraordinary  being  caused,  as  it  were, 
a  breath  of  life  to  circulate  throughout  the  entire  cathedral. 
It  seemed  as  though  there  escaped  from  him,  at  least  accord- 
ing to  the  growing  superstitions  of  the  crowd,  a  mysterious 
emanation  which  animated  all  the  stones  of  Notre-Dame,  and 
made  the  deep  bowels  of  the  ancient  church  to  palpitate.  It 
sufficed  for  people  to  know  that  he  was  there,  to  make  them 
believe  that  they  beheld  the  thousand  statues  of  the  galleries 
and  the  fronts  in  motion.  And  the  cathedral  did  indeed  seem 
a  docile  and  obedient  creature  beneath  his  hand ;  it  waited  on 
his  will  to  raise  its  great  voice ;  it  was  possessed  and  filled 
with  Quasimodo,  as  with  a  familiar  spirit.  One  would  have 
said  that  he  made  the  immense  edifice  breathe.  He  was 
everywhere  about  it;  in  fact,  he  multiplied  himself  on  all 
points  of  the  structure.  ]STow  one  perceived  with  affright  at 


168  NOTRE-DAME. 

the  very  top  of  one  of  the  towers,  a  fantastic  dwarf  climbing, 
writhing,  crawling  on  all  fours,  descending  outside  above  the 
abyss,  leaping  from  projection  to  projection,  and  going  to 
ransack  the  belly  of  some  sculptured  gorgon ;  it  was  Quasi- 
modo dislodging  the  crows.  Again,  in  some  obscure  corner  of 
the  church  one  came  in  contact  with  a  sort  of  living  chimera, 
crouching  and  scowling ;  it  was  Quasimodo  engaged  in  thought. 
Sometimes  one  caught  sight,  upon  a  bell  tower,  of  an  enor- 
mous head  and  a  bundle  of  disordered  limbs  swinging  furi- 
ously at  the  end  of  a  rope ;  it  was  Quasimodo  ringing  vespers 
or  the  Angelus.  Often  at  night  a  hideous  form  was  seen 
wandering  along  the  frail  balustrade  of  carved  lacework, 
which  crowns  the  towers  and  borders  the  circumference  of 
the  apse ;  again  it  was  the  hunchback  of  Notre-Dame.  Then, 
said  the  women  of  the  neighborhood,  the  whole  church  took 
on  something  fantastic,  supernatural,  horrible ;  eyes  and 
mouths  were  opened,  here  and  there  ;  one  heard  the  dogs,  the 
monsters,  and  the  gargoyles  of  stone,  which  keep  watch  night 
and  day,  with  outstretched  neck  and  open  jaws,  around  the 
monstrous  cathedral,  barking.  And,  if  it  was  a  Christmas 
Eve,  while  the  great  bell,  which  seemed  to  emit  the  death 
rattle,  summoned  the  faithful  to  the  midnight  mass,  such  an 
air  was  spread  over  the  sombre  facade  that  one  would  have 
declared  that  the  grand  portal  was  devouring  the  throng,  and 
that  the  rose  window  was  watching  it.  And  all  this  came 
from  Quasimodo.  Egypt  would  have  taken  him  for  the  god 
of  this  temple ;  the  Middle  Ages  believed  him  to  be  its 
demon :  he  was  in  fact  its  soul. 

To  such  an  extent  was  this  disease  that  for  those  who  know 
that  Quasimodo  has  existed,  Notre-Dame  is  to-day  deserted, 
inanimate,  dead.  One  feels  that  something  has  disappeared 
from  it.  That  immense  body  is  empty  ;  it  is  a  skeleton ;  the 
spirit  has  quitted  it.  one  sees  its  place  and  that  is  all.  It  is 
like  a  skull  which  still  has  holes  for  the  eyes,  but  no  longer 
sight. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE    DOG   AXD    HIS   MASTER. 

NEVERTHELESS,  there  was  one  human  creature  whom  Quasi- 
modo excepted  from  his  malice  and  from  his  hatred  for  others, 
and  whom  he  loved  even  more,  perhaps,  than  his  cathedral : 
this  was  Claude  Frollo. 

The  matter  was  simple ;  Claude  Frollo  had  taken  him  in, 
had  adopted  him,  had  nourished  him,  had  reared  him.  When 
a  little  lad,  it  was  between  Claude  Frollo's  legs  that  he  was 
accustomed  to  seek  refuge,  when  the  dogs  and  the  children 
barked  after  him.  Claude  Frollo  had  taught  him  to  talk,  to 
read,  to  write.  Claude  Frollo  had  finally  made  him  the  bell- 
ringer.  Now,  to  give  the  big  bell  in  marriage  to  Quasimodo 
was  to  give  Juliet  to  Romeo. 

Hence  Quasimodo's  gratitude  was  profound,  passionate, 
boundless  ;  and  although  the  visage  of  his  adopted  father 
was  often  clouded  or  severe,  although  his  speech  was  habi- 
tually curt,  harsh,  imperious,  that  gratitude  never  wavered 
for  a  single  moment.  The  archdeacon  had  in  Quasimodo 
the  most  submissive  slave,  the  most  docile  lackey,  the  most 
vigilant  of  dogs.  When  the  poor  bellringer  became  deaf, 
there  had  been  established  between  him  and  Claude  Frollo,  a 
language  of  signs,  mysterious  and  understood  by  themselves 
alone.  In  this  manner  the  archdeacon  was  the  sole  human 
being  with  whom  Quasimodo  had  preserved  communication. 
He  was  in  sympathy  with  but  two  things  in  this  world  :  Notre- 
Dame  and  Claude  Frollo. 

169 


170  NOTRE-DAME. 

There  is  notliing  which  can  be  compared  with  the  empire  of 
the  archdeacon  over  the  bellringer ;  with  the  attachment  of 
the  bellringer  for  the  archdeacon.  A  sign  from  Claude  and 
the  idea  of  giving  him  pleasure  would  have  sufficed  to  make 
Quasimodo  hurl  himself  headlong  from  the  summit  of  Notre- 
Dame.  It  was  a  remarkable  thing  —  all  that  physical  strength 
which  had  reached  in  Quasimodo  such  an  extraordinary  devel- 
opment, and  which  was  placed  by  him  blindly  at  the  disposi- 
tion of  another.  There  was  in  it,  no  doubt,  filial  devotion, 
domestic  attachment ;  there  was  also  the  fascination  of  one 
spirit  by  another  spirit.  It  was  a  poor,  awkward,  and  clumsy 
organization,  which  stood  with  lowered  head  and  supplicating 
eyes  before  a  lofty  and  profound,  a  powerful  and  superior 
intellect.  Lastly,  and  above  all,  it  was  gratitude.  Gratitude 
so  pushed  to  its  extremest  limit,  that  we  do  not  know  to  what 
to  compare  it.  This  virtue  is  not  one  of  those  of  which  the 
finest  examples  are  to  be  met  with  among  men.  We  will  say 
then,  that  Quasimodo  loved  the  archdeacon  as  never  a  dog, 
never  a  horse,  never  an  elephant  loved  his  master. 


CHAPTER  V. 


MORE  ABOUT  CLAUDE  FBOLLO. 

IN  1482,  Quasimodo  was  about  twenty  years  of  age ;  Claude 
Frollo,  about  thirty-six.  One  had  grown  up,  the  other  had 
grown  old. 

Claude  Frollo  was  no  longer  the  simple  scholar  of  the  col- 
lege of  Torchi,  the  tender  protector  of  a  little  child,  the 
young  and  dreamy  philosopher  who  knew  many  things  and 
was  ignorant  of  many.  He  was  a  priest,  austere,  grave,  mo- 
rose ;  one  changed  with  souls ;  monsieur  the  archdeacon  of 
Josas,  the  bishop's  second  acolyte,  having  charge  of  the 
two  deaneries  of  Montlhery,  and  Chateaufort,  and  one  hundred 
and  seventy-four  country  curacies.  He  was  an  imposing  and 
sombre  personage,  before  whom  the  choir  boys  in  alb  and 
in  jacket  trembled,  as  well  as  the  machicots,*  and  the  brothers 
of  Saint- Augustine  and  the  matutinal  clerks  of  Notre-Dame, 
when  he  passed  slowly  beneath  the  lofty  arches  of  the  choir, 
majestic,  thoughtful,  with  arms  folded  and  his  head  so  bent 
upon  his  breast  that  all  one  saw  of  his  face  was  his  large, 
bald  brow. 

Dom  Claude  Frollo  had,  however,  abandoned  neither  sci- 
ence nor  the  education  of  his  young  brother,  those  two  occu- 
pations of  his  life.  But  as  time  went  on,  some  bitterness  had 
been  mingled  with  these  things  which  were  so  sweet.  In  the 
long  run,  says  Paul  Diacre,  the  best  lard  turns  rancid.  Little 
Jehan  Frollo,  surnamed  (du  Moulin)  "  of  the  Mill "  because  of 

*  An  official  of  Notre-Daine,  lower  than  a  beneficed  clergyman,  higher 
than  simple  paid  chanters. 


171 


172  NOTRE-DAME. 

the  place  where  he  had  been  reared,  had  not  grown  up  in  the 
direction  which  Claude  would  have  liked  to  impose  upon  him. 
The  big  brother  counted  upon  a  pious,  docile,  learned,  and 
honorable  pupil.  But  the  little  brother,  like  those  young  trees 
which  deceive  the  gardener's  hopes  and  turn  obstinately  to  the 
quarter  whence  they  receive  sun  and  air,  the  little  brother  did 
not  grow  and  did  not  multiply,  but  only  put  forth  fine  bushy 
and  luxuriant  branches  on  the  side  of  laziness,  ignorance,  and 
debauchery.  He  was  a  regular  devil,  and  a  very  disorderly 
one,  who  made  Dom  Claude  scowl ;  but  very  droll  and  very 
subtle,  which  made  the  big  brother  smile. 

Claude  had  confided  him  to  that  same  college  of  Torchi 
where  he  had  passed  his  early  years  in  study  and  meditation ; 
and  it  was  a  grief  to  him  that  this  sanctuary,  formerly  edified 
by  the  name  of  Frollo,  should  to-day  be  scandalized  by  it.  He 
sometimes  preached  Jehan  very  long  and  severe  sermons, 
which  the  latter  intrepidly  endured.  After  all,  the  young 
scapegrace  had  a  good  heart,  as  can  be  seen  in  all  comedies. 
But  the  sermon  over,  he  none  the  less  tranquilly  resumed  his 
course  of  seditions  and  enormities.  Now  it  was  a  bejaune  or 
yellow  beak  (as  they  called  the  new  arrivals  at  the  university), 
whom  he  had  been  mauling  by  way  of  welcome ;  a  precious 
tradition  which  has  been  carefully  preserved  to  our  own  day. 
Again,  he  had  set  in  movement  a  band  of  scholars,  who  had 
flung  themselves  upon  a  wine-shop  in  classic  fashion,  quasi 
classico  excitati,  had  then  beaten  the  tavern-keeper  "with  of- 
fensive cudgels,"  and  joyously  pillaged  the  tavern,  even  to 
smashing  in  the  hogsheads  of  wine  in  the  cellar.  And  then 
it  was  a  fine  report  in  Latin,  which  the  sub-monitor  of  Torchi 
carried  piteously  to  Dom  Claude  with  this  dolorous  marginal 
comment,  —  Rixa ;  prlma  causa  vinum  optimum,  potatum. 
Finally,  it  was  said,  a  thing  quite  horrible  in  a  boy  of  sixteen, 
that  his  debauchery  often  extended  as  far  as  the  Eue  de 
Glatigny. 

Claude,  saddened  and  discouraged  in  his  human  affections, 
by  all  this,  had  flung  himself  eagerly  into  the  arms  of  learn- 
ing, that  sister  which,  at  least  does  not  laugh  in  your  face,  and 
which  always  pays  you,  though  in  money  that  is  sometimes  a 


MORE  ABOUT  CLAUDE  FROLLO.  173 

little  hollow,  for  the  attention  which  you  have  paid  to  her. 
Hence,  he  became  more  and  more  learned,  and,  at  the  same 
time,  as  a  natural  consequence,  more  and  more  rigid  as  a 
priest,  more  and  more  sad  as  a  man.  There  are  for  each  of 
us  several  parallelisms  between  our  intelligence,  our  habits, 
and  our  character,  which  develop  without  a  break,  and  break 
only  in  the  great  disturbances  of  life. 

As  Claude  Frollo  had  passed  through  nearly  the  entire 
circle  of  human  learning  —  positive,  exterior,  and  permissible 
—  since  his  youth,  he  was  obliged,  unless  he  came  to  a  halt, 
ubi  defiiit  orbis,  to  proceed  further  and  seek  other  aliments 
for  the  insatiable  activity  of  his  intelligence.  The  antique 
symbol  of  the  serpent  biting  its  tail  is,  above  all,  applicable 
to  science.  It  would  appear  that  Claude  Frollo  had  experi- 
enced this.  Many  grave  persons  affirm  that,  after  having  ex- 
hausted the  fas  of  human  learning,  he  had  dared  to  penetrate 
into  the  nefas.  He  had,  they  said,  tasted  in  succession  all 
the  apples  of  the  tree  of  knowledge,  and,  whether  from  hunger 
or  disgust,  had  ended  by  tasting  the  forbidden  fruit.  He  had 
taken  his  place  by  turns,  as  the  reader  has  seen,  in  the  confer- 
ences of  the  theologians  in  Sorbonne,  —  in  the  assemblies  of 
the  doctors  of  art,  after  the  manner  of  Saint-Hilaire,  —  in  the 
disputes  of  the  decretalists,  after  the  manner  of  Saint-Martin, 
-  in  the  congregations  of  physicians  at  the  holy  water  font  of 
Notre-Dame,  ad  cupam  Nostrw-Domince.  All  the  dishes  per- 
mitted and  approved,  which  those  four  great  kitchens  called 
the  four  faculties  could  elaborate  and  serve  to  the  understand- 
ing, he  had  devoured,  and  had  been  satiated  with  them  before 
his  hunger  was  appeased.  Then  he  had  penetrated  further, 
lower,  beneath  all  that  finished,  material,  limited  knowledge ; 
he  had,  perhaps,  risked  his  soul,  and  had  seated  himself  in  the 
cavern  at  that  mysterious  table  of  the  alchemists,  of  the  as- 
trologers, of  the  hermetics,  of  which  Averroes,  Gillaume  de 
Paris,  and  Nicolas  Flamel  hold  the  end  in  the  Middle  Ages; 
and  which  extends  in  the  East,  by  the  light  of  the  seven- 
branched  candlestick,  to  Solomon,  Pythagoras,  and  Zoroaster. 

That  is,  at  least,  what  was  supposed,  whether  rightly  or  not. 

It  is  certain  that  the  archdeacon  often  visited  the  cemetery 


174  NOTEE-DAME. 

of  the  Saints-Innocents,  where,  it  is  true,  his  father  and 
mother  had  been  buried,  with  other  victims  of  the  plague  of 
1466 ;  but  that  he  appeared  far  less  devout  before  the  cross 
of  their  grave  than  before  the  strange  figures  with  which  the 
tomb  of  Nicolas  Flamel  and  Claude  Pernelle,  erected  just  be- 
side it,  was  loaded. 

It  is  certain  that  he  had  frequently  been  seen  to  pass  along 
the  Kue  des  Lombards,  and  furtively  enter  a  little  house 
which  formed  the  corner  of  the  Eue  des  Ecrivans  and  the  Kue 
Marivault.  It  was  the  house  which  Nicolas  Flamel  had 
built,  where  he  had  died  about  1417,  and  which,  constantly 
deserted  since  that  time,  had  already  begun  to  fall  in  ruins,  — 
so  greatly  had  the  hermetics  and  the  alchemists  of  all  coun- 
tries wasted  away  the  walls,  merely  by  carving  their  names 
upon  them.  Some  neighbors  even  affirm  that  they  had  once 
seen,  through  an  air-hole,  Archdeacon  Claude  excavating, 
turning  over,  digging  up  the  earth  in  the  two  cellars,  whose 
supports  had  been  daubed  with  numberless  couplets  and  hiero- 
glyphics by  Nicolas  Flamel  himself.  It  was  supposed  that 
Flamel  had  buried  the  philosopher's  stone  in  the  cellar ;  and 
the  alchemists,  for  the  space  of  two  centuries,  from  Magistri 
to  Father  Pacifique,  never  ceased  to  worry  the  soil  until  the 
house,  so  cruelly  ransacked  and  turned  over,  ended  by  falling 
into  dust  beneath  their  feet. 

Again,  it  is  certain  that  the  archdeacon  had  been  seized 
with  a  singular  passion  for  the  symbolical  door  of  Notre- 
Dame,  that  page  of  a  conjuring  book  written  in  stone,  by 
Bishop  Guillaume  de  Paris,  who  has,  no  doubt,  been  damned 
for  having  affixed  so  infernal  a  frontispiece  to  the  sacred  poem 
chanted  by  the  rest  of  the  edifice.  Archdeacon  Claude  had 
the  credit  also  of  having  fathomed  the  mystery  of  the  colossus 
of  Saint  Christopher,  and  of  that  lofty,  enigmatical  statue 
which  then  stood  at  the  entrance  of  the  vestibule,  and  which 
the  people,  in  derision,  called  "Monsieur  Legris."  But,  what 
every  one  might  have  noticed  was  the  interminable  hours 
which  he  often  employed,  seated  upon  the  parapet  of  the  area 
in  front  of  the  church,  in  contemplating  the  sculptures  of  the 
front ;  examining  now  the  foolish  virgins  with  their  lamps  re- 


MORE  ABOUT  CLAUDE  FROLLO. 

versed,  now  the  wise  virgins  with  their  lamps  upright ;  again, 
calculating  the  angle  of  vision  of  that  raven  which  belongs 
to  the  left  front,  and  which  is  looking  at  a  mysterious  point 
inside  the  church,  where  is  concealed  the  philosopher's  stone, 
if  it  be  not  in  the  cellar  of  Nicolas  Flarnel. 

It  was,  let  us  remark  in  passing,  a  singular  fate  for  the 
Church  of  Notre-Dame  at  that  epoch  to  be  so  beloved,  in  two 
different  degrees,  and  with  so  much  devotion,  by  two  beings  so 
dissimilar  as  Claude  and  Quasimodo.  Beloved  by  one,  a  sort 
of  instinctive  and  savage  half-man,  for  its  beauty,  for  its 
stature,  for  the  harmonies  which  emanated  from  its  magnifi* 
cent  ensemble ;  beloved  by  the  other,  a  learned  and  passion- 
ate imagination,  for  its  myth,  for  the  sense  which  it  contains, 
for  the  symbolism  scattered  beneath  the  sculptures  of  its 
front, — like  the  first  text  underneath  the  second  in  a  pa- 
limpsest, —  in  a  word,  for  the  enigma  which  it  is  eternally 
propounding  to  the  understanding. 

Furthermore,  it  is  certain  that  the  archdeacon  had  estab- 
lished himself  in  that  one  of  the  two  towers  which  looks 
upon  the  Greve.  just  beside  the  frame  for  the  bells,  a  very 
secret  little  cell,  into  which  no  one,  not  even  the  bishop, 
entered  without  his  leave,  it  was  said.  This  tiny  cell  had 
formerly  been  made  almost  at  the  summit  of  the  tower, 
among  the  ravens'  nests,  by  Bishop  Hugo  de  Besangon  *  who 
had  wrought  sorcery  there  in  his  day.  What  that  cell  con- 
tained, no  one  knew ;  but  from  the  strand  of  the  Terrain,  at 
night,  there  was  often  seen  to  appear,  disappear,  and  reappear 
at  brief  and  regular  intervals,  at  a  little  dormer  window 
opening  upon  the  back  of  the  tower,  a  certain  red,  intermit- 
tent, singular  light  which  seemed  to  follow  the  panting 
breaths  of  a  bellows,  and  to  proceed  from  a  flame,  rather  than 
from  a  light.  In  the  darkness,  at  that  height,  it  produced  a 
singular  effect ;  and  the  goodwives  said :  "  There's  the  arch- 
deacon blowing !  hell  is  sparkling  up  yonder  !  " 

There  were  no  great  proofs  of  sorcery  in  that,  after  all,  but 
there  was  still  enough  smoke  to  warrant  a  surmise  of  fire,  and 
the  archdeacon  bore  a  tolerably  formidable  reputation.  We 
*  Hugo  II.  de  Bisuncio,  1326-1332. 


176  NOTEE-DAME. 

ought  to  mention  however,  that  the  sciences  of  Egypt,  that 
necromancy  and  magic,  even  the  whitest,  even  the  most  inno- 
cent, had  no  more  envenomed  enemy,  no  more  pitiless  denun- 
ciator before  the  gentlemen  of  the  officialty  of  Notre-Dame. 
Whether  this  was  sincere  horror,  or  the  game  played  by  the 
thief  who  shouts,  "  stop  thief ! "  at  all  events,  it  did  not  prevent 
the  archdeacon  from  being  considered  by  the  learned  heads  of 
the  chapter,  as  a  soul  who  had  ventured  into  the  vestibule  of 
hell,  who  was  lost  in  the  caves  of  the  cabal,  groping  amid  the 
shadows  of  the  occult  sciences.  Neither  were  the  people 
deceived  thereby ;  with  any  one  who  possessed  any  sagacity, 
Quasimodo  passed  for  the  demon;  Claude  Frollo,  for  the 
sorcerer.  It  was  evident  that  the  bellringer  was  to  serve  the 
archdeacon  for  a  given  time,  at  the  end  of  which  he  would 
carry  away  the  latter's  soul,  by  way  of  payment.  Thus  the 
archdeacon,  in  spite  of  the  excessive  austerity  of  his  life,  was 
in  bad  odor  among  all  pious  souls  ;  and  there  was  no  devout 
nose  so  inexperienced  that  it  could  not  smell  him  out  to  be  a 
magician. 

And  if,  as  he  grew  older,  abysses  had  formed  in  his  science, 
they  had  also  formed  in  his  heart.  That  at  least,  is  what  one 
had  grounds  for  believing  on  scrutinizing  that  face  upon 
which  the  soul  was  only  seen  to  shine  through  a  sombre  cloud. 
Whence  that  large,  bald  brow  ?  that  head  forever  bent  ?  tha< 
breast  always  heaving  with  sighs  ?  WThat  secret  thought- 
caused  his  mouth  to  smile  with  so  much  bitterness,  at  the 
same  moment  that  his  scowling  brows  approached  each  other 
like  two  bulls  on  the  point  of  fighting  ?  Why  was  what  hair 
he  had  left  already  gray  ?  What  was  that  internal  fire  which 
sometimes  broke  forth  in  his  glance,  to  such  a  degree  that  his 
eye  resembled  a  hole  pierced  in  the  wall  of  a  furnace  ? 

These  symptoms  of  a  violent  moral  preoccupation,  had  ac- 
quired an  especially  high  degree  of  intensity  at  the  epoch 
when  this  story  takes  place.  More  than  once  a  choir-boy  had 
fled  in  terror  at  finding  him  alone  in  the  church,  so  strange 
and  dazzling  was  his  look.  More  than  once,  in  the  choir,  at 
the  hour  of  the  offices,  his  neighbor  in  the  stalls  had  heard 
him  mingle  with  the  plain  song,  ad  omnem  tonum,  unintelli- 


NOEE  ABOUT  CLAUDE  FEOLLO.  177 

gible  parentheses.  More  than  once  the  laundress  of  the  Ter- 
rain charged  "  with  washing  the  chapter "  had  observed,  not 
without  affright,  the  marks  of  nails  and  clenched  fingers  on 
the  surplice  of  monsieur  the  archdeacon  of  Josas. 

However,  he  redoubled  his  severity,  and  had  never  been 
more  exemplary.  By  profession  as  well  as  by  character,  he 
had  always  held  himself  aloof  from  women  ;  he  seemed  to  hate 
them  more  than  ever.  The  mere  rustling  of  a  silken  petticoat 
caused  his  hood  to  fall  over  his  eyes.  Upon  this  score  he  was 
so  jealous  of  austerity  and  reserve,  that  when  the  Dame  de 
Beaujeu,  the  king's  daughter,  came  to  visit  the  cloister  of 
Kotre-Dame,  in  the  month  of  December,  1481,  he  gravely  op- 
posed her  entrance,  reminding  the  bishop  of  the  statute  of 
the  Black  Book,  dating  from  the  vigil  of  Saint-Barthelemy, 
1334,  which  interdicts  access  to  the  cloister  to  "any  woman 
whatever,  old  or  young,  mistress  or  maid."  Upon  which  the 
bishop  had  been  constrained  to  recite  to  him  the  ordinance  of 
Legate  Odo,  which  excepts  certain  great  dames,  aliquce  mag- 
nates mulieres,  quce  sine  scandalo  vitari  non  possunt.  And 
again  the  archdeacon  had  protested,  objecting  that  the  ordi- 
nance of  the  legate,  which  dated  back  to  1207,  was  anterior 
by  a  hundred  and  twenty-seven  years  to  the  Black  Book,  and 
consequently  was  abrogated  in  fact  by  it.  And  he  had  refused 
to  appear  before  the  princess. 

It  was  also  noticed  that  his  horror  for  Bohemian  women  and 
gypsies  had  seemed  to  redouble  for  some  time  past.  He  had 
petitioned  the  bishop  for  an  edict  which  expressly  forbade 
the  Bohemian  women  to  come  and  dance  and  beat  their  tam- 
bourines on  the  place  of  the  Parvis ;  and  for  about  the  same 
length  of  time,  he  had  been  ransacking  the  mouldy  placards 
of  the  officialty,  in  order  to  collect  the  cases  of  sorcerers  and 
witches  condemned  to  fire  or  the  rope,  for  complicity  in  crimes 
with  rams,  sows,  or  goats. 


CHAPTER  VL 

UNPOPULARITY. 

THE  archdeacon  and  the  bellringer,  as  we  have  alread5 
said,  were  but  little  loved  by  the  populace  great  and  small,  in 
the  vicinity  of  the  cathedral.  When  Claude  and  Quasimodo 
went  out  together,  which  frequently  happened,  and  when 
they  were  seen  traversing  in  company,  the  valet  behind  the 
master,  the  cold,  narrow,  and  gloomy  streets  of  the  block  of 
Notre-Dame,  more  than  one  evil  word,  more  than  one  ironical 
quaver,  more  than  one  insulting  jest  greeted  them  on  their 
way,  unless  Claude  Frollo,  which  was  rarely  the  case,  walked 
with  head  upright  and  raised,  showing  his  severe  and  almost 
august  brow  to  the  dumbfounded  jeerers. 

Both  were  in  their  quarter  like  "  the  poets "  of  whom 
Regnier  speaks,  — 

"  All  sorts  of  persons  run  after  poets, 
As  warblers  fly  shrieking  after  owls." 

Sometimes  a  mischievous  child  risked  his  skin  and  bones  foi 
the  ineffable  pleasure  of  driving  a  pin  into  Quasimodo's  hump. 
Again,  a  young  girl,  more  bold  and  saucy  than  was  fitting, 
brushed  the  priest's  black  robe,  singing  in  his  face  the  sardonic 
ditty,  "  niche,  niche,  the  devil  is  caught."  Sometimes  a  group 
of  squalid  old  crones,  squatting  in  a  file  under  the  shadow  of 
the  steps  to  a  porch,  scolded  noisily  as  the  archdeacon  and  the 
bellringer  passed,  and  tossed  them  this  encouraging  welcome, 

J78 


UNPOPULARITY. 


179 


with  a  curse :  "  Hum !  there's  a  fellow  whose  soul  is  made  like 
the  other  one's  body ! "  Or  a  band  of  schoolboys  and  street 
urchins,  playing  hop-scotch,  rose  in  a  body  and  saluted  him 
classically,  with  some  cry  in  Latin :  "  Eia !  eia !  Claudius 
cum  claudo!  " 

But  the  insult  generally  passed  unnoticed  both  by  the  priest 
and  the  bellringer.  Quasimodo  was  too  deaf  to  hear  all  these 
gracious  things,  and  Claude  was  too  dreamy. 


BOOK    FIFTH. 


CHAPTER  I. 

ABBAS    BEATI    MARTINI. 

DOM  CLAUDE'S  fame  had  spread  far  and  wide.  It  procured 
for  him,  at  about  the  epoch  when  he  refused  to  see  Madame  de 
Beaujeu,  a  visit  which  he  long  remembered. 

It  was  in  the  evening.  He  had  just  retired,  after  the  office, 
to  his  canon's  cell  in  the  cloister  of  Notre-Dame.  This  cell, 
with  the  exception,  possibly,  of  some  glass  phials,  relegated 
to  a  corner,  and  filled  with  a  decidedly  equivocal  powder, 
which  strongly  resembled  the  alchemist's  "  powder  of  project- 
ion," presented  nothing  strange  or  mysterious.  There  were? 
indeed,  here  and  there,  some  inscriptions  on  the  walls,  but  they 
were  pure  sentences  of  learning  and  piety,  extracted  from 
good  authors.  The  archdeacon  had  just  seated  himself,  by  the 
light  of  a  three-jetted  copper  lamp,  before  a  vast  coffer 
crammed  with  manuscripts.  He  had  rested  his  elbow  upon  the 
open  volume  of  Honorius  d' Autun,  De  predestinatione  et  libero 
arbitrio,  and  he  was  turning  over,  in  deep  meditation,  the 
leaves  of  a  printed  folio  which  he  had  just  brought,  the  sole 
product  of  the  press  which  his  cell  contained.  In  the  midst 
of  his  revery  there  came  a  knock  at  his  door.  "  Who's 

180 


ABBAS  BE  ATI  MARTINI. 

there  ?  "  cried  the  learned  man,  in  the  gracious  tone  of  a  fam- 
ished dog,  disturbed  over  his  bone. 

A  voice  without  replied,  "  Your  friend,  Jacques  Coictier." 
He  went  to  open  the  door. 

It  was,  in  fact,  the  king's  physician ;  a  person  about  fifty 
years  of  age,  whose  harsh  physiognomy  was  modified  only  by  a 
crafty  eye.  Another  man  accompanied  him.  Both  wore  long 
slate-colored  robes,  furred  with  minever,  girded  and  closed, 
with  caps  of  the  same  stuff  and  hue.  Their  hands  were 
concealed  by  their  sleeves,  their  feet  by  their  robes,  their  eyes 
by  their  caps. 

"  God  help  me,  messieurs ! "  said  the  archdeacon,  showing 
them  in ;  "I  was  not  expecting  distinguished  visitors  at  such 
an  hour."  And  while  speaking  in  this  courteous  fashion  he 
cast  an  uneasy  and  scrutinizing  glance  from  the  physician  to 
his  companion. 

"  'Tis  never  too  late  to  come  and  pay  a  visit  to  so  consider- 
able a  learned  man  as  Dom  Claude  Frollo  de  Tirechappe,"  re- 
plied Doctor  Coicter,  whose  Franche-Comte  accent  made  all  his 
phrases  drag  along  with  the  majesty  of  a  train-robe. 

There  then  ensued  between  the  physician  and  the  arch- 
deacon one  of  those  congratulatory  prologues  which,  in  accor- 
dance with  custom,  at  that  epoch  preceded  all  conversations 
between  learned  men,  and  which  did  not  prevent  them  from 
detesting  each  other  in  the  most  cordial  manner  in  the  world. 
However,  it  is  the  same  nowadays ;  every  wise  man's  mouth 
complimenting  another  wise  man  is  a  vase  of  honeyed  gall. 

Claude  Frolic's  felicitations  to  Jacques  Coictier  bore  refer- 
ence principally  to  the  temporal  advantages  which  the  worthy 
physician  had  found  means  to  extract,  in  the  course  of  his 
much  envied  career,  from  each  malady  of  the  king,  an  opera- 
tion of  alchemy  much  better  and  more  certain  than  the  pursuit 
of  the  philosopher's  stone. 

"In  truth,  Monsieur  le  Docteur  Coictier,  I  felt  great  joy 
on  learning  of  the  bishopric  given  your  nephew,  my  reverend 
seigneur  Pierre  Verse.  Is  he  not  Bishop  of  Amiens  ?  " 

"Yes,  monsieur  Archdeacon;  it  is  a  grace  and  mercy  of 
God." 


182  NOTRE-DAME. 

"  Do  you  know  that  you  made  a  great  figure  on  Christmas 
Day  at  the  head  of  your  company  of  the  chamber  of  accounts, 
Monsieur  President  ?  " 

"  Vice-President,  Dom  Claude.     Alas !  nothing  more." 

"How  is  your  superb  house  in  the  Eue  Saint- Andre  des 
Arcs  coming  on  ?  'Tis  a  Louvre.  I  love  greatly  the  apricot 
tree  which  is  carved  on  the  door,  with  this  play  of  words : 
'A  L'ABRI-COTIER — Sheltered  from  reefs.'" 

"  Alas !  Master  Claude,  all  that  masonry  costeth  me  dear. 
In  proportion  as  the  house  is  erected,  I  am  ruined." 

"Ho!  have  you  not  your  revenues  from  the  jail,  and  the 
bailiwick  of  the  Palais,  and  the  rents  of  all  the  houses, 
sheds,  stalls,  and  booths  of  the  enclosure  ?  'Tis  a  fine  breast 
to  suck." 

"  My  castellany  of  Poissy  has  brought  me  in  nothing  this 
year." 

"  But  your  tolls  of  Triel,  of  Saint-James,  of  Saint-Germain- 
en-Laye  are  always  good." 

"  Six  score  livres,  and  not  even  Parisian  livres  at  that." 

"  You  have  your  office  of  counsellor  to  the  king.  That  is 
fixed." 

"Yes,  brother  Claude;  but  that  accursed  seigneury  of 
Poligny,  which  people  make  so  much  noise  about,  is  worth 
not  sixty  gold  crowns,  year  out  and  year  in." 

In  the  compliments  which  Dom  Claude  addressed  to  Jacques 
Coictier,  there  was  that  sardonical,  biting,  and  covertly  mock- 
ing accent,  and  the  sad  cruel  smile  of  a  superior  and  unhappy 
man  who  toys  for  a  moment,  by  way  of  distraction,  with  the 
dense  prosperity  of  a  vulgar  man.  The  other  did  not  per- 
ceive it. 

"  Upon  my  soul,"  said  Claude  at  length,  pressing  his  hand. 
"I  am  glad  to  see  you  and  in  such  good  health." 

"  Thanks,  Master  Claude." 

"By  the  way,"  exclaimed  Dom  Claude,  "how  is  your  royal 
patient  ?  " 

"He  payeth  not  sufficiently  his  physician,"  replied  th? 
doctor,  casting  a  side  glance  at  his  companion. 

"  Think  you  so,  Gossip  Coictier,"  said  the  latter. 


ABBAS  BEATI  MARTINI.  183 

These  words,  uttered  in  a  tone  of  surprise  and  reproach, 
drew  upon  this  unknown  personage  the  attention  of  the  arch- 
deacon which,  to  tell  the  truth,  had  not  been  diverted  from 
him  a  single  moment  since  the  stranger  had  set  foot  across 
the  threshold  of  his  cell.  It  had  even  required  all  the  thou- 
sand reasons  which  he  had  for  handling  tenderly  Doctor 
Jacques  Coictier,  the  all-powerful  physician  of  King  Louis  XI., 
to  induce  him  to  receive  the  latter  thus  accompanied.  Hence, 
there  was  nothing  very  cordial  in  his  manner  when  Jacques 
Coictier  said  to  him,  — 

"  By  the  way,  Dom  Claude,  I  bring  you  a  colleague  who  has 
desired  to  see  you  on  account  of  your  reputation. 

"  Monsieur  belongs  to  science  ?  "  asked  the  archdeacon,  fix- 
ing his  piercing  eye  upon  Coictier's  companion.  He  found 
beneath  the  brows  of  the  stranger  a  glance  no  less  piercing 
or  less  distrustful  than  his  own. 

He  was,  so  far  as  the  feeble  light  of  the  lamp  permitted 
one  to  judge,  an  old  man  about  sixty  years  of  age  and  of 
medium  stature,  who  appeared  somewhat  sickly  and  broken  in 
health.  His  profile,  although  of  a  very  ordinary  outline,  had 
something  powerful  and  severe  about  it;  his  eyes  sparkled 
beneath  a  very  deep  superciliary  arch,  like  a  light  in  the 
depths  of  a  cave ;  and  beneath  his  cap  which  was  well  drawn 
down  and  fell  upon  his  nose,  one  recognized  the  broad  expanse 
of  a  brow  of  genius. 

He  took  it  upon  himself  to  reply  to  the  archdeacon's  ques- 
tion, — 

"  Keverend  master,"  he  said  in  a  grave  tone,  "  your  renown 
has  reached  my  ears,  and  I  wish  to  consult  you.  I  am  but  a 
poor  provincial  gentleman,  who  removeth  his  shoes  before 
entering  the  dwellings  of  the  learned.  You  must  know  my 
name.  I  am  called  Gossip  Tourangeau." 

"Strange  name  for  a  gentleman,"  said  the  archdeacon  to 
himself. 

Nevertheless,  he  had  a  feeling  that  he  was  in  the  presence 
of  a  strong  and  earnest  character.  The  instinct  of  his  own 
lofty  intellect  made  him  recognize  an  intellect  no  less  lofty 
under  Gossip  Tourangeau's  furred  cap,  and  as  he  gazed  at 


184  NOTRE-DAME. 

the  solemn  face,  the  ironical  smile  which  Jacques  Coictier's 
presence  called  forth  on  his  gloomy  face,  gradually  disap- 
peared as  twilight  fades  on  the  horizon  of  night. 

Stern  and  silent,  he  had  resumed  his  seat  in  his  great  arm- 
chair; his  elbow  rested  as  usual,  on  the  table,  and  his  brow 
on  his  hand.  After  a  few  moments  of  reflection,  he  motioned 
his  visitors  to  be  seated,  and,  turning  to  Gossip  Tourangeau 
he  said, — 

"  You  come  to  consult  me,  master,  and  upon  what  science  ?  " 

"  Your  reverence,"  replied  Tourangeau,  "  I  am  ill,  very  ill. 
You  are  said  to  be  great  ^Esculapius,  and  I  am  come  to  ask 
your  advice  in  medicine." 

"  Medicine ! "  said  the  archdeacon,  tossing  his  head.  He 
seemed  to  meditate  for  a  moment,  and  then  resumed :  "  Gossip 
Tourangeau,  since  that  is  your  name,  turn  your  head,  you  will 
find  my  reply  already  written  on  the  wall. 

Gossip  Tourangeau  obeyed,  and  read  this  inscription  en- 
graved above  his  head:  "Medicine  is  the  daughter  of  dreams. 
—  JAMBLIQUH." 

Meanwhile,  Doctor  Jacques  Coictier  had  heard  his  com- 
panion's question  with  a  displeasure  which  Dom  Claude's 
response  had  but  redoubled.  He  bent  down  to  the  ear  of 
Gossip  Tourangeau,  and  said  to  him,  softly  enough  not  to  be 
heard  by  the  archdeacon :  *:  I  warned  you  that  he  was  mad. 
You  insisted  on  seeing  him." 

"  'Tis  very  possible  that  he  is  right,  madman  as  he  is,  Doctor 
Jacques,"  replied  his  comrade  in  the  same  low  tone,  and  with 
a  bitter  smile. 

"  As  you  please,"  replied  Coictier  dryly.  Then,  addressing 
the  archdeacon  :  "  You  are  clever  at  your  trade,  Dom  Claude, 
and  you  are  no  more  at  a  loss  over  Hippocrates  than  a  monkey 
is  over  a  nut.  Medicine  a  dream !  I  suspect  that  the  phar- 
macopolists  and  the  master  physicians  would  insist  upon  ston- 
ing you  if  they  were  here.  So  you  deny  the  influence  of 
philtres  upon  the  blood,  and  unguents  on  the  skin !  You  deny 
that  eternal  pharmacy  of  flowers  and  metals,  which  is  called 
the  world,  made  expressly  for  that  eternal  invalid  called 
man!" 


ABBAS  BE  ATI  MARTINI.  185 

"  I  deny,"  said  Dom  Claude  coldly,  "  neither  pharmacy  nor 
the  invalid.  I  reject  the  physician." 

"Then  it  is  not  true,"  resumed  Coictier  hotly,  "that  gout 
is  an  internal  eruption  ;  that  a  wound  caused  by  artillery  is  to 
be  cured  by  the  application  of  a  young  mouse  roasted ;  that 
young  blood,  properly  injected,  restores  youth  to  aged  veins ; 
it  is  not  true  that  two  and  two  make  four,  and  that  emprosta- 
thonos  follows  opistathonos." 

The  archdeacon  replied  without  perturbation :  "  There  are 
certain  things  of  which  I  think  in  a  certain  fashion." 

Coictier  became  crimson  with  anger. 

"There,  there,  my  good  Coictier,  let  us  not  get  angry," 
said  Gossip  Tourangeau.  "Monsieur  the  archdeacon  is  our 
friend." 

Coictier  calmed  down,  muttering  in  a  low  tone,  — 

"After  all,  he's  mad." 

"  Pasque-dieu,  Master  Claude,"  resumed  Gossip  Tourangeau, 
after  a  silence,  "  You  embarrass  me  greatly.  I  had  two  things 
to  consult  you  upon,  one  touching  my  health  and  the  other 
touching  my  star." 

"Monsieur,"  returned  the  archdeacon,  "if  that  be  your 
motive,  you  would  have  done  as  well  not  to  put  yourself  out 
of  breath  climbing  my  staircase.  I  do  not  believe  in  Medi- 
cine. I  do  not  believe  in  Astrology." 

"  Indeed  ! "  said  the  man,  with  surprise. 

Coictier  gave  a  forced  laugh. 

"  You  see  that  he  is  mad,"  he  said,  in  a  low  tone,  to  Gossip 
Tourangeau.  "  He  does  not  believe  in  astrology." 

"  The  idea  of  imagining,"  pursued  Dom  Claude,  "  that  every 
ray  of  a  star  is  a  thread  which  is  fastened  to  the  head  of  a  man ! " 

"  And  what  then,  do  you  believe  in  ? "  exclaimed  Gossip 
Tourangeau. 

The  archdeacon  hesitated  for  a  moment,  then  he  allowed  a 
gloomy  smile  to  escape,  which  seemed  to  give  the  lie  to  his 
response  :  "  Credo  in  Deum." 

" Dominum  nostrum"  added  Gossip  Tourangeau,  making  the 
sign  of  the  cross. 

"Amen,"  said  Coictier. 


186  NOTRE-DAME. 

\ 

"Reverend  master,"  resumed  Tourangeau,  "I  am  charmed 
in  soul  to  see  you  in  such  a  religious  frame  of  mind.  But 
have  you  reached  the  point,  great  savant  as  you  are,  of  no 
longer  believing  in  science  ?  " 

"No,"  said  the  archdeacon,  grasping  the  arm  of  Gossip 
Tourangeau,  and  a  ray  of  enthusiasm  lighted  up  his  gloomy 
eyes,  "no,  I  do  not  reject  science.  I  have  not  crawled  so 
long,  flat  on  my  belly,  with  my  nails  in  the  earth,  through  the 
innumerable  ramifications  of  its  caverns,  without  perceiving 
far  in  front  of  me,  at  the  end  of  the  obscure  gallery,  a  light,  a 
flame,  a  something,  the  reflection,  no  doubt,  of  the  dazzling 
central  laboratory  where  the  patient  and  the  wise  have  found 
out  God." 

"And  in  short,"  interrupted  Tourangeau,  "what  do  you 
hold  to  be  true  and  certain  ?  " 

"  Alchemy." 

Coictier  exclaimed,  "  Pardieu,  Dom  Claude,  alchemy  has  its 
use,  no  doubt,  but  why  blaspheme  medicine  and  astrology  ?  " 

"Naught  is  your  science  of  man,  naught  is  your  science  of 
the  stars,"  said  the  archdeacon,  commandingly. 

"  That's  driving  Epidaurus  and  Chaldea  very  fast,"  replied 
the  physician  with  a  grin. 

"Listen,  Messire  Jacques.  This  is  said  in  good  faith.  I 
am  not  the  king's  physician,  and  his  majesty  has  not  given 
me  the  Garden  of  Daedalus  in  which  to  observe  the  constella- 
tions. Don't  get  angry,  but  listen  to  me.  What  truth  have 
you  deduced,  I  will  not  say  from  medicine,  which  is  too  fool- 
ish a  thing,  but  from  astrology  ?  Cite  to  me  the  virtues  of  the 
vertical  boustrophedon,  the  treasures  of  the  number  ziruph 
and  those  of  the  number  zephirod ! " 

"Will  you  deny,"  said  Coictier,  "the  sympathetic  force  of 
the  collar  bone,  and  the  cabalistics  which  are  derived  from 
it?" 

"  An  error,  Messire  Jacques  !  None  of  your  formulas  end  in 
reality.  Alchemy  on  the  other  hand  has  its  discoveries.  Will 
you  contest  results  like  this  ?  Ice  confined  beneath  the  earth 
for  a  thousand  years  is  transformed  into  rock  crystals.  Lead 
is  the  ancestor  of  all  metals.  For  gold  is  not  a  metal,  gold  is 


ABBAS  BEATI  MARTINI.  187 

light.  Lead  requires  only  four  periods  of  two  hundred  years 
each,  to  pass  in  succession  from  the  state  of  lead,  to  the  state 
of  red  arsenic,  from  red  arsenic  to  tin,  from  tin  to  silver.  Are 
not  these  facts  ?  But  to  believe  in  the  collar  bone,  in  the  full 
line  and  in  the  stars,  is  as  ridiculous  as  to  believe  with  the 
inhabitants  of  Grand-Cathay  that  the  golden  oriole  turns  into 
a  mole,  and  that  grains  of  wheat  turn  into  fish  of  the  carp 
species." 

"  I  have  studied  hermetic  science ! "  exclaimed  Coictier, 
"  and  I  affirm  —  " 

The  fiery  archdeacon  did  not  allow  him  to  finish :  "  And  I 
have  studied  medicine,  astrology,  and  hermetics.  Here  alone 
is  the  truth."  (As  he  spoke  thus,  he  took  from  the  top  of  the 
coffer  a  phial  filled  with  the  powder  which  we  have  mentioned 
above),  "  here  alone  is  light !  Hippocrates  is  a  dream  ;  Urania 
is  a  dream ;  Hermes,  a  thought.  Gold  is  the  sun ;  to  make 
gold  is  to  be  God.  Herein  lies  the  one  and  only  science.  1 
have  sounded  the  depths  of  medicine  and  astrology,  I  tell 
you !  Naught,  nothingness  !  The  human  body,  shadows  !  the 
planets,  shadows ! " 

And  he  fell  back  in  his  armchair  in  a  commanding  and  in- 
spired attitude.  Gossip  Tourangeau  watched  him  in  silence. 
Coictier  tried  to  grin,  shrugged  his  shoulders  imperceptibly, 
and  repeated  in  a  low  voice,  — 

"  A  madman  ! " 

"  And,"  said  Tourangeau  suddenly,  "  the  wondrous  result,  — • 
have  you  attained  it,  have  you  made  gold  ?  " 

"  If  I  had  made  it,"  replied  the  archdeacon,  articulating  hia 
words  slowly,  like  a  man  who  is  reflecting,  "the  king  of 
France  would  be  named  Claude  and  not  Louis." 

The  stranger  frowned. 

"  What  am  I  saying  ?  "  resumed  Dom  Claude,  with  a  smile 
of  disdain.  «  What  would  the  throne  of  France  be  to  me  when 
I  could  rebuild  the  empire  of  the  Orient  ?  " 

"  Very  good  !  "  said  the  stranger. 

"  Oh,  the  poor  fool !  "  murmured  Coictier. 

The  archdeacon  went  on,  appearing  to  reply  now  only  to 
his  thoughts,  — 


188  NOTRE-DAME. 

"  But  no,  I  am  still  crawling ;  I  am  scratching  my  face  and 
knees  against  the  pebbles  of  the  subterranean  pathway.  I 
catch  a  glimpse,  I  do  not  contemplate !  I  do  not  read,  I  spell 
out ! " 

"  And  when  you  know  how  to  read ! "  demanded  the  stran- 
ger, "  will  you  make  gold  ?  " 

"  Who  doubts  it  ?  "  said  the  archdeacon. 

"  In  that  case  Our  Lady  knows  that  I  am  greatly  in  need  of 
money,  and  I  should  much  desire  to  read  in  your  books.  Tell 
me,  reverend  master,  is  your  science  inimical  or  displeasing  to 
Our  Lady  ?  " 

"  Whose  archdeacon  I  am  ?  "  Dom  Claude  contented  him- 
self with  replying,  with  tranquil  hauteur. 

"  That  is  true,  my  master.  Well !  will  it  please  you  to 
initiate  me  ?  Let  me  spell  with  you." 

Claude  assumed  the  majestic  and  pontifical  attitude  of  a 
Samuel. 

"  Old  man,  it  requires  longer  years  than  remain  to  you,  to 
undertake  this  voyage  across  mysterious  things.  Your  head 
is  very  gray  !  One  conies  forth  from  the  cavern  only  with 
white  hair,  but  only  those  with  dark  hair  enter  it.  Science 
alone  knows  well  how  to  hollow,  wither,  and  dry  up  human 
faces ;  she  needs  not  to  have  old  age  bring  her  faces  already 
furrowed.  Nevertheless,  if  the  desire  possesses  you  of  put- 
ting yourself  under  discipline  at  your  age,  and  of  deciphering 
the  formidable  alphabet  of  the  sages,  come  to  me ;  'tis  well, 
I  will  make  the  effort.  I  will  not  tell  you,  poor  old  man,  to 
go  and  visit  the  sepulchral  chambers  of  the  pyramids,  of 
which  ancient  Herodotus  speaks,  nor  the  brick  tower  of  Baby- 
lon, nor  the  immense  white  marble  sanctuary  of  the  Indian 
temple  of  Eklinga.  I,  no  more  than  yourself,  have  seen  the 
Chaldean  masonry  works  constructed  according  to  the  sacred 
form  of  the  Sikra,  nor  the  temple  of  Solomon,  which  is 
destroyed,  nor  the  stone  doors  of  the  sepulchre  of  the  kings 
of  Israel,  which  are  broken.  We  will  content  ourselves  with 
the  fragments  of  the  book  of  Hermes  which  we  have  here. 
I  will  explain  to  you  the  statue  of  Saint  Christopher,  the 
symbol  of  the  sower,  and  that  of  the  two  angels  which  are 


ABBAS  BEATI  MAETINL  189 

on  the  front  of  the  Sainte-Chapelle,  and  one  of  which  holds 
in  his  hands  a  vase,  the  other,  a  cloud  — " 

Here  Jacques  Coictier,  who  had  been  unhorsed  by  the  arch- 
deacon's impetuous  replies,  regained  his  saddle,  and  inter- 
rupted him  with  the  triumphant  tone  of  one  learned  man 
correcting  another,  —  "  Erras  amice  Claudi.  The  symbol  is 
not  the  number.  You  take  Orpheus  for  Hermes." 

"  'Tis  you  who  are  in  error,"  replied  the  archdeacon,  gravely. 
"  Daedalus  is  the  base ;  Orpheus  is  the  wall ;  Hermes  is  the 
edifice,  —  that  is  all.  You  shall  come  when  you  will,"  he  con- 
tinued, turning  to  Tourangeau,  "I  will  show  you  the  little 
parcels  of  gold  which  remained  at  the  bottom  of  Nicholas 
Flamel's  alembic,  and  you  shall  compare  them  with  the  gold 
of  Guillaume  de  Paris.  I  will  teach  you  the  secret  virtues 
of  the  Greek  word,  peristera.  But,  first  of  all,  I  will  make 
you  read,  one  after  the  other,  the  marble  letters  of  the  alpha  • 
bet,  the  granite  pages  of  the  book.  We  shall  go  to  the  portal 
of  Bishop  Guillaume  and  of  Saint-Jean  le  Eond  at  the  Sainte- 
Chapelle,  then  to  the  house  of  Nicholas  Flamel,  Eue  Mari- 
vault,  to  his  tomb,  which  is  at  the  Saints-Innocents,  to  his  two 
hospitals,  Eue  de  Montmorency.  I  will  make  you  read  the 
hieroglyphics  which  cover  the  four  great  iron  cramps  on  the 
portal  of  the  hospital  Saint-Gervais,  and  of  the  Eue  de  la 
Ferronnerie.  We  will  spell  out  in  company,  also,  the  facade 
of  Saint-Come,  of  Sainte-Genevieve-des-Ardents,  of  Saint  Mar- 
tin, of  Saint-Jacques  de  la  Boucherie  — ." 

For  a  long  time,  Gossip  Tourangeau,  intelligent  as  was  his 
glance,  had  appeared  not  to  understand  Dom  Claude.  He 
interrupted. 

"  Pasque-dieu  !  what  are  your  books,  then  ?  " 

"  Here  is  one  of  them,"  said  the  archdeacon. 

And  opening  the  window  of  his  cell  he  pointed  out  with 
his  finger  the  immense  church  of  Xotre-Dame,  which,  outlin- 
ing against  the  starry  sky  the  black  silhouette  of  its  two  towers, 
its  stone  flanks,  its  monstrous  haunches,  seemed  an  enormous 
two-headed  sphinx,  seated  in  the  middle  of  the  city. 

The  archdeacon  gazed  at  the  gigantic  edifice  for  some  time 
in  silence,  then  extending  his  right  hand,  with  a  sigh,  towards 


190  NOTRE-DAME. 

the  printed  book  which  lay  open  on  the  table,  and  his  left 
towards  Notre-Dame,  and  turning  a  sad  glance  from  the  book 
to  the  church,  —  "Alas,"  he  said,  "  this  will  kill  that." 

Coictier,  who  had  eagerly  approached  the  book,  could  not 
repress  an  exclamation.  "  He,  but  now,  what  is  there  so  for- 
midable in  this  :  <GLOSSA  ix  EPISTOLAS  D.  PAULI,  Norimber<j<r, 
Antonius  Koburger,  1474.'  This  is  not  new.  'Tis  a  book  of 
Pierre  Lombard,  the  Master  of  Sentences.  Is  it  because  it  is 
printed  ?  " 

"  You  have  said  it,"  replied  Claude,  who  seemed  absorbed 
in  a  profound  meditation,  and  stood  resting,  his  forefinger 
bent  backward  on  the  folio  which  had  come  from  the  famous 
press  of  Nuremberg.  Then  he  added  these  mysterious  words  : 
"Alas !  alas  !  small  things  come  at  the  end  of  great  things ;  a 
tooth  triumphs  over  a  mass.  The  Nile  rat  kills  the  crocodile 
the  swordfish  kills  the  whale,  the  book  will  kill  the  edifice." 

The  curfew  of  the  cloister  sounded  at  the  moment  when 
Master  Jacques  was  repeating  to  his  companion  in  low  tones, 
his  eternal  refrain,  "  He  is  'mad  !  "  To  which  his  companion 
this  time  replied,  "  I  believe  that  he  is." 

It  was  the  hour  when  no  stranger  could  remain  in  the 
cloister.  The  two  visitors  withdrew.  "  Master,"  said  Gossip 
Tourangeau,  as  he  took  leave  of  the  archdeacon,  "  I  love  wise 
men  and  great  minds,  and  I  hold  you  in  singular  esteem. 
Come  to-morrow  to  the  Palace  des  Tournelles,  and  inquire  for 
the  Abbe  de  Sainte-Martin,  of  Tours." 

The  archdeacon  returned  to  his  chamber  dumbfounded,  com- 
prehending at  last  who  Gossip  Tourangeau  was,  and  recalling 
that  passage  of  the  register  of  Sainte-Martin,  of  Tours :  — 
Abbas  bead  Martini,  SCILICET  EEX  FRAXCIJE,  est  canonicus  de 
consuetudine  et  habet  parvam  procbendam  quam  habet  sanctus 
Venantius,  et  debet  sedere  in  sede  thesaurarii. 

It  is  asserted  that  after  that  epoch  the  archdeacon  had  fre- 
quent conferences  with  Louis  XL,  when  his  majesty  came  to 
Paris,  and  that  Dom  Claude's  influence  quite  overshadowed 
that  of  Olivier  le  Daim  and  Jacques  Coictier,  who,  as  was  his 
habit,  rudely  took  the  king  to  task  on  that  account. 


CHAPTER  II. 


THIS    WILL    KILL   THAT. 

OUR  lady  readers  will  pardon  us  if  we  pause  for  a  moment 
to  seek  what  could  have  been  the  thought  concealed  beneath 
those  enigmatic  Avords  of  the  archdeacon :  "  This  will  kill 
that.  The  book  will  "kill  the  edifice." 

To  our  mind,  this  thought  had  two  faces.  In  the  first  place, 
it  Avas  a  priestly  thought.  It  was  the  affright  of  the  priest  in 
the  presence  of  a  neAv  agent,  the  printing  press.  It  Avas  the 
terror  and  dazzled  amazement  of  the  men  of  the  sanctuary,  in 
the  presence  of  the  luminous  press  of  Gutenberg.  It?  was 
the  pulpit  and  the  manuscript  taking  the  alarm  at  the  printed 
Avord:  something  similar  to  the  stupor  of  a  sparroAV  Avhich 
should  behold  the  angel  Legion  unfold  his  six  million  AA-ings. 
It  Avas  the  cry  of  the  prophet  Avho  already  hears  emancipated 
humanity  roaring  and  SAvarming ;  who  beholds  in  the  future, 
intelligence  sapping  faith,  opinion  dethroning  belief,  the  Avorld 
shaking  off  Rome.  It  Avas  the  prognostication  of  the  philos- 
opher who  sees  human  thought,  volatilized  by  the  press,  evap- 
orating from  the  theocratic  recipient.  It  Avas  the  terror  of 
the  soldier  Avho  examines  the  brazen  battering  ram,  and  says : 
-"The  tower  Avill  crumble."  It  signified  that  one  power 
Avas  about  to  succeed  another  pOAver.  It  meant,  "  The  press 
Avill  kill  the  church." 

191 


102  NOTRE-DAME. 

But  underlying  this  thought,  the  first  and  most  simple  one, 
no  doubt,  there  was  in  our  opinion  another,  newer  one,  a  corol- 
lary of  the  first,  less  easy  to  perceive  and  more  easy  to  con- 
test, a  view  as  philosophical  and  belonging  no  longer  to  the 
priest  alone  but  to  the  savant  and  the  artist.  It  was  a  pre- 
sentiment that  human  thought,  in  changing  its  form,  was 
about  to  change  its  mode  of  expression ;  that  the  dominant 
idea  of  each  generation  would  no  longer  be  written  with  the 
same  matter,  and  in  the  same  manner  ;  that  the  book  of  stone, 
so  solid  and  so  durable,  was  about  to  make  way  for  the  book 
of  paper,  more  solid  and  still  more  durable.  In  this  connec- 
tion the  archdeacon's  vague  formula  had  a  second  sense.  It 
meant,  "  Printing  will  kill  architecture." 

In  fact,  from  the  origin  of  things  down  to  the  fifteenth  cen- 
tury of  the  Christian  era,  inclusive,  architecture  is  the  great 
book  of  humanity,  the  principal  expression  of  man  in  his  dif- 
ferent stages  of  development,  either  as  a  force  or  as  an  in- 
telligence. 

When  the  memory  of  the  first  races  felt  itself  overloaded, 
when  the  mass  of  reminiscences  of  the  human  race  became 
so  heavy  and  so  confused  that  speech  naked  and  flying,  ran 
the  risk  of  losing  them  on  the  way,  men  transcribed  them  on 
the  soil  in  a  manner  which  was  at  once  the  most  visible,  most 
durable,  and  most  natural.  They  sealed  each  tradition  beneath 
a  monument. 

The  first  monuments  were  simple  masses  of  rock,  "  which  the 
iron  had  not  touched,"  as  Moses  says.  Architecture  began  like 
all  writing.  It  was  first  an  alphabet.  Men  planted  a  stone 
upright, 'it  was  a  letter,  and  each  letter  was  a  hieroglyph,  and 
upon  each  hieroglyph  rested  a  group  of  ideas,  like  the  capital 
on  the  column.  This  is  what  the  earliest  races  did  everywhere, 
at  the  same  moment,  on  the  surface  of  the  entire  world.  We 
find  the  "  standing  stones  "  of  the  Celts  in  Asian  Siberia ;  in 
the  pampas  of  America. 

Later  on,  they  made  words ;  they  placed  stone  upon  stone, 
they  coupled  those  syllables  of  granite,  and  attempted  some 
combinations.  The  Celtic  dolmen  and  cromlech,  the  Etruscan 
tumulus,  the  Hebrew  galgal,  are  words.  Some,  especially  the 


THIS    WILL   KILL    THAT.  193 

tumulus,  are  proper  names.  Sometimes  even,  when  men  had 
a  great  deal  of  stone,  and  a  vast  plain,  they  wrote  a  phrase. 
The  immense  pile  of  Karnac  is  a  complete  sentence. 

At  last  they  made  books.  Traditions  had  brought  forth 
symbols,  beneath  which  they  disappeared  like  the  trunk  of  a 
tree  beneath  its  foliage  ;  all  these  symbols  in  which  humanity 
placed  faith  continued  to  grow,  to  multiply,  to  intersect,  to 
become  more  and  more  complicated ;  the  first  monuments 
no  longer  sufficed  to  contain  them,  they  were  overflowing  in 
every  part ;  these  monuments  hardly  expressed  now  the  prim- 
itive tradition,  simple  like  themselves,  naked  and  prone  upon 
the  earth.  The  symbol  felt  the  need  of  expansion  in  the  edi- 
fice. Then  architecture  was  developed  in  proportion  with  hu- 
man thought ;  it  became  a  giant  with  a  thousand  heads  and 
a  thousand  arms,  and  fixed  all  this  floating  symbolism  in  an 
eternal,  visible,  palpable  form.  While  Daedalus,  who  is  force, 
measured ;  while  Orpheus,  who  is  intelligence,  sang ;  —  the  pil- 
lar, which  is  a  letter ;  the  arcade,  which  is  a  syllable ;  the  pyra- 
mid, which  is  a  word,  —  all  set  in  movement  at  once  by  a  law  of 
geometry  and  by  a  law  of  poetry,  grouped  themselves,  com- 
bined, amalgamated,  descended,  ascended,  placed  themselves 
side  by  side  on  the  soil,  ranged  themselves  in  stories  in  the 
sky,  until  they  had  written  under  the  dictation  of  the  general 
idea  of  an  epoch,  those  marvellous  books  which  were  also  mar- 
vellous edifices  :  the  Pagoda  of  Eklinga,  the  Rhamseion  of 
Egypt,  the  Temple  of  Solomon. 

The  generating  idea,  the  word,  was  not  only  at  the  founda- 
tion of  all  these  edifices,  but  also  in  the  form.  The  temple  of 
Solomon,  for  example,  was  not  alone  the  binding  of  the  holy 
book  ;  it  was  the  holy  book  itself.  On  each  one  of  its  concen- 
tric walls,  the  priests  could  read  the  word  translated  and  mani- 
fested to  the  eye,  and  thus  they  followed  its  transformations 
from  sanctuary  to  sanctuary,  until  they  seized  it  in  its  last  tab- 
ernacle, under  its  most  concrete  form,  which  still  belonged  to 
architecture  :  the  arch.  Thus  the  word  was  enclosed  in  an 
edifice,  but  its  image  was  upon  its  envelope,  like  the  human 
form  on  the  coffin  of  a  mummy. 

And  not  only  the  form  of  edifices,  but  the  sites  selected  for 


194  NOTRE-DAMK. 

them,  revealed  the  thought  which  they  represented,  accord- 
ing as  the  symbol  to  be  expressed  was  graceful  or  grave. 
Greece  crowned  her  mountains  with  a  temple  harmonious  to 
the  eye ;  India  disembowelled  hers,  to  chisel  therein  those 
monstrous  subterranean  pagodas,  borne  up  by  gigantic  rows  of 
granite  elephants. 

Thus,  during  the  first  six  thousand  years  of  the  world,  from 
the  most  immemorial  pagoda  of  Hindustan,  to  the  cathedral 
of  Cologne,  architecture  was  the  great  handwriting  of  the 
human  race.  And  this  is  so  true,  that  not  only  every  religious 
symbol,  but  every  human  thought,  has  its  page  and  its  monu- 
ment in  that  immense  book. 

All  civilization  begins  in  theocracy  and  ends  in  democracy. 
This  law  of  liberty  following  unity  is  written  in  architecture. 
For,  let  us  insist  upon  this  point,  masonry  must  not  be  thought 
to  be  powerful  only  in  erecting  the  temple  and  in  expressing 
the  myth  and  sacerdotal  symbolism;  in  inscribing  in  hiero- 
glyphs upon  its  pages  of  stone  the  mysterious  tables  of  the 
law.  If  it  were  thus,  —  as  there  comes  in  all  human  society  a 
moment  when  the  sacred  symbol  is  worn  out  and  becomes 
obliterated  under  freedom  of  thought,  when  man  escapes  from 
the  priest,  when  the  excrescence  of  philosophies  and  systems 
devour  the  face  of  religion, — architecture  could  not  reproduce 
this  new  state  of  human  thought ;  its  leaves,  so  crowded  on  the 
face,  would  be  empty  on  the  back ;  its  work  would  be  mutilated ; 
its  book  would  be  incomplete.  But  no. 

Let  us  take  as  an  example  the  Middle  Ages,  where  we  see 
more  clearly  because  it  is  nearer  to  us.  During  its  first 
period,  while  theocracy  is  organizing  Europe,  while  the  Vati^ 
can  is  rallying  and  reclassing  about  itself  the  elements  of  a 
Eome  made  from  the  Eome  which  lies  in  ruins  around  the 
Capitol,  while  Christianity  is  seeking  all  the  stages  of  society 
amid  the  rubbish  of  anterior  civilization,  and  rebuilding  with 
its  ruins  a  new  hierarchic  universe,  the  keystone  to  whose 
vault  is  the  priest  —  one  first  hears  a  dull  echo  from  that 
chaos,  and  then,  little  by  little,  one  sees,  arising  from  beneath 
the  breath  of  Christianity,  from  beneath  the  hand  of  the 
barbarians,  from  the  fragments  of  the  dead  Greek  and  Roman 


THIS   WILL   KILL   THAT.  195 

architectures,  that  mysterious  Eomanesque  architecture,  sister 
of  the  theocratic  masonry  of  Egypt  and  of  India,  inalterable 
emblem  of  pure  Catholicism,  unchangeable  hieroglyph  of  the 
papal  unity.  Ail  the  thought  of  that  day  is  written,  in  fact, 
in  this  sombre,  Eomanesque  style.  One  feels  everywhere  in 
it  authority,  unity,  the  impenetrable,  the  absolute,  Gregory 
VII.;  always  the  priest,  never  the  man;  everywhere  caste, 
never  the  people. 

But  the  Crusades  arrive.  They  are  a  great  popular  move- 
ment, and  every  great  popular  movement,  whatever  may  be 
its  cause  and  object,  always  sets  free  the  spirit  of  liberty 
from  its  final  precipitate.  New  things  spring  into  life  every 
day.  Here  opens  the  stormy  period  of  the  Jacqueries,  Pra- 
gueries,  and  Leagues.  Authority  wavers,  unity  is  divided. 
Feudalism  demands  to  share  with  theocracy,  while  awaiting 
the  inevitable  arrival  of  the  people,  who  will  assume  the  part 
of  the  lion :  Quia  nominor  leo.  Seignory  pierces  through 
sacerdotalism  ;  the  commonality,  through  seignory.  The  face 
of  Europe  is  changed.  Well !  the  face  of  architecture  is 
changed  also.  Like  civilization,  it  has  turned  a  page,  and  the 
new  spirit  of  the  time  finds  her  ready  to  write  at  its  dictation. 
It  returns  from  the  crusades  with  the  pointed  arch,  like  the 
nations  with  liberty. 

Then,  while  Rome  is  undergoing  gradual  dismemberment, 
Eomanesque  architecture  dies.  The  hieroglyph  deserts  the 
cathedral,  and  betakes  itself  to  blazoning  the  donjon  keep,  in 
order  to  lend  prestige  to  feudalism.  The  cathedral  itself,  that 
edifice  formerly  so  dogmatic,  invaded  henceforth  by  the  bour- 
geoisie, by  the  community,  by  liberty,  escapes  the  priest  and 
falls  into  the  power  of  the  artist.  The  artist  builds  it  after 
his  own  fashion.  Farewell  to  mystery,  myth,  law.  Fancy 
and  caprice,  welcome.  Provided  the  priest  has  his  basilica 
and  his  altar,  he  has  nothing  to  say.  The  four  walls  belong 
to  the  artist.  The  architectural  book  belongs  no  longer  to  the 
priest,  to  religion,  to  Borne ;  it  is  the  property  of  poetry,  of 
imagination,  of  the  people.  Hence  the  rapid  and  innumerable 
transformations  of  that  architecture  which  owns  but  three 
centuries,  so  striking  after  the  stagnant  immobility  of  the 


196  NOTBE-DAME. 

Komanesque  architecture,  which  owns  six  or  seven.  Never- 
theless, art  marches  on  with  giant  strides.  Popular  genius 
and  originality  accomplish  the  task  which  the  bishops  form- 
erly fulfilled.  Each  race  writes  its  line  upon  the  book,  as  it 
passes ;  it  erases  the  ancient  Romanesque  hieroglyphs  on  the 
frontispieces  of  cathedrals,  and  at  the  most  one  only  sees 
dogma  cropping  out  here  and  there,  beneath  the  new  symbol 
which  it  has  deposited.  The  popular  drapery  hardly  permits 
the  religious  skeleton  to  be  suspected.  One  cannot  even  form 
an  idea  of  the  liberties  which  the  architects  then  take,  even 
toward  the  Church.  There  are  capitals  knitted  of  nuns  and 
monks,  shamelessly  coupled,  as  on  the  hall  of  chimney  pieces 
in  the  Palais  de  Justice,  in  Paris.  There  is  Noah's  adventure 
carved  to  the  last  detail,  as  under  the  great  portal  of  Bourges. 
There  is  a  bacchanalian  monk,  with  ass's  ears  and  glass  in 
hand,  laughing  in  the  face  of  a  whole  community,  as  on  the 
lavatory  of  the  Abbey  of  Bocherville.  There  exists  at  that 
epoch,  for  thought  written  in  stone,  a  privilege  exactly  com- 
parable to  our  present  liberty  of  the  press.  It  is  the  liberty 
of  architecture. 

This  liberty  goes  very  far.  Sometimes  a  portal,  a  fa9ade, 
an  entire  church,  presents  a  symbolical  sense  absolutely  for- 
eign to  worship,  or  even  hostile  to  the  Church.  In  the  thirteenth 
century,  Guillaume  de  Paris,  and  Nicholas  Flamel,  in  the 
fifteenth,  wrote  such  seditious  pages.  Saint-Jacques  de  la 
Boucherie  was  a  whole  church  of  the  opposition. 

Thought  was  then  free  only  in  this  manner ;  hence  it  never 
wrote  itself  out  completely  except  on  the  books  called  edifices. 
Thought,  under  the  form  of  edifice,  could  have  beheld  itself 
burned  in  the  public  square  by  the  hands  of  the  executioner, 
in  its  manuscript  form,  if  it  had  been  sufficiently  imprudent 
to  risk  itself  thus ;  thought,  as  the  door  of  a  church,  would 
have  been  a  spectator  of  the  punishment  of  thought  as 
a  book.  Having  thus  only  this  resource,  masonry,  in  order  to 
make  its  way  to  the  light,  flung  itself  upon  it  from  all  quar- 
ters. Hence  the  immense  quantity  of  cathedrals  which  have 
covered  Europe  —  a  number  so  prodigious  that  one  can  hardly 
believe  it  even  after  having  verified  it.  All  the  material 


THIS    WILL   KILL    THAT.  197 

forces,  all  the  intellectual  forces  of  society  converged  towards 
the  same  point :  architecture.  In  this  manner,  under  the  pre- 
text of  building  churches  to  God,  art  was  developed  in  its 
magnificent  proportions. 

Then  whoever  was  born  a  poet  became  an  architect. 
Genius,  scattered  in  the  masses,  repressed  in  every  quarter 
under  feudalism  as  under  a  testudo  of  brazen  bucklers,  find- 
ing no  issue  except  in  the  direction  of  architecture,  —  gushed 
forth  through  that  art,  and  its  Iliads  assumed  the  form  of  ca- 
thedrals. All  other  arts  obeyed,  and  placed  themselves  under 
the  discipline  of  architecture.  They  were  the  workmen  of  the 
great  work.  The  architect,  the  poet,  the  master,  summed  up 
in  his  person  the  sculpture  which  carved  his  facades,  painting 
which  illuminated  his  windows,  music  which  set  his  bells  to 
pealing,  and  breathed  into  his  organs.  There  was  nothing 
down  to  poor  poetry,  —  properly  speaking,  that  which  per- 
sisted in  vegetating  in  manuscripts,  —  which  was  not  forced, 
in  order  to  make  something  of  itself,  to  come  and  frame  itself 
in  the  edifice  in  the  shape  of  a  hymn  or  of  prose  ;  the  same 
part,  after  all,  which  the  tragedies  of  ^Eschylus  had  played 
in  the  sacerdotal  festivals  of  Greece  ;  Genesis,  in  the  temple 
of  Solomon. 

Thus,  down  to  the  time  of  Gutenberg,  architecture  is  the 
principal  writing,  the  universal  writing.  In  that  granite 
book,  begun  by  the  Orient,  continued  by  Greek  and  Roman 
antiquity,  the  Middle  Ages  wrote  the  last  page.  Moreover, 
this  phenomenon  of  an  architecture  of  the  people  following 
an  architecture  of  caste,  which  we  have  just  been  observing 
in  the  Middle  Ages,  is  reproduced  with  every  analogous 
movement  in  the  human  intelligence  at  the  other  great 
epochs  of  history.  Thus,  in  order  to  enunciate  here  only  sum- 
marily, a  law  which  it  would  require  volumes  to  develop :  in 
the  high  Orient,  the  cradle  of  primitive  times,  after  Hindoo 
architecture  came  Phoenician  architecture,  that  opulent  mother 
of  Arabian  architecture;  in  antiquity,  after  Egyptian  archi- 
tecture, of  which  Etruscan  style  and  cyclopean  monuments 
are  but  one  variety,  came  Greek  architecture  (of  which  the 
Roman  style  is  only  a  continuation),  surcharged  with  the 


198  NOTRE-DAME. 

Carthaginian  dome ;  in  modern  times,  after  Eomanesque  arch- 
itecture came  Gothic  architecture.  And  by  separating  these 
three  series  into  their  component  parts,  we  shall  find  in  the 
three  eldest  sisters,  Hindoo  architecture,  Egyptian  architect- 
ure, Romanesque  architecture,  the  same  symbol ;  that  is  to 
say,  theocracy,  caste,  unity,  dogma,  myth,  God :  and  for  the 
three  younger  sisters,  Phoenician  architecture,  Greek  archi- 
tecture, Gothic  architecture,  whatever,  nevertheless,  may  be 
the  diversity  of  form  inherent  in  their  nature,  the  same 
signification  also ;  that  is  to  say,  liberty,  the  people,  man. 

In  the  Hindu,  Egyptian,  or  Eomanesque  architecture,  one 
feels  the  priest,  nothing  but  the  priest,  whether  he  calls  him- 
self  Brahmin,  Magian,  or  Pope.  It  is  not  the  same  in  the 
architectures  of  the  people.  They  are  richer  and  less  sacred. 
In  the  Phoenician,  one  feels  the  merchant ;  in  the  Greek,  the 
republican ;  in  the  Gothic,  the  citizen. 

The  general  characteristics  of  all  theocratic  architecture  are 
immutability,  horror  of  progress,  the  preservation  of  tradi- 
tional lines,  the  consecration  of  the  primitive  types,  the  con- 
stant bending  of  all  the  forms  of  men  and  of  nature  to  the 
incomprehensible  caprices  of  the  symbol.  These  are  dark 
books,  which  the  initiated  alone  understand  how  to  decipher. 
Moreover,  every  form,  every  deformity  even,  has  there  a 
sense  which  renders  it  inviolable.  Do  not  ask  of  Hindoo, 
Egyptian,  Eomanesque  masonry  to  reform  their  design,  or 
to  improve  their  statuary.  Every  attempt  at  perfecting  is 
an  impiety  to  them.  In  these  architectures  it  seems  as 
though  the  rigidity  of  the  dogma  had  spread  over  the  stone 
like  a  sort  of  second  petrifaction.  The  general  characteris- 
tics of  popular  masonry,  on  the  contrary,  are  progress,  origin- 
ality, opulence,  perpetual  movement.  They  are  already 
sufficiently  detached  from  religion  to  think  of  their  beauty,  to 
take  care  of  it,  to  correct  without  relaxation  their  partire  of 
statues  or  arabesques.  They  are  of  the  age.  They  have 
something  human,  which  they  mingle  incessantly  with  the 
divine  symbol  under  which  they  still  produce.  Hence,  edi- 
fices comprehensible  to  every  soul,  to  every  intelligence,  to 
every  imagination,  symbolical  still,  but  as  easy  to  understand 


THIS    WILL  KILL    THAT.  199 

as  nature.  Between  theocratic  architecture  and  this  there  is 
the  difference  that  lies  between  a  sacred  language  and  a 
vulgar  language,  between  hieroglyphics  and  art,  between 
Solomon  and  Phidias. 

If  the  reader  will  sum  up  what  we  have  hitherto  briefly, 
very  briefly,  indicated,  neglecting  a  thousand  proofs  and  also 
a  thousand  objections  of  detail,  he  will  be  led  to  this :  that 
architecture  was,  down  to  the  fifteenth  century,  the  chief  reg- 
ister of  humanity ;  that  in  that  interval  not  a  thought  which 
is  in  any  degree  complicated  made  its  appearance  in  the 
world,  which  has  not  been  worked  into  an  edifice ;  that  every 
popular  idea,  and  every  religious  law,  has  had  its  monumental 
records ;  that  the  human  race  has,  in  short,  had  no  important 
thought  which  it  has  not  written  in  stone.  And  why  ?  Be- 
cause every  thought,  either  philosophical  or  religious,  is  inter- 
ested in  perpetuating  itself;  because  the  idea  which  has 
moved  one  generation  wishes  to  move  others  also,  and  leave 
a  trace.  Now,  what  a  precarious  immortality  is  that  of  the 
manuscript !  How  much  more  solid,  durable,  unyielding,  is  a 
book  of  stone  !  In  order  to  destroy  the  written  word,  a  torch 
and  a  Turk  are  sufficient.  To  demolish  the  constructed  word, 
a  social  revolution,  a  terrestrial  revolution  are  required.  The 
barbarians  passed  over  the  Coliseum;  the  deluge,  perhaps^ 
passed  over  the  Pyramids. 

In  the  fifteeeth  century  everything  changes. 

Human  thought  discovers  a  mode  of  perpetuating  itself, 
not  only  more  durable  and  more  resisting  than  architecture, 
but  still  more  simple  and  easy.  Architecture  is  dethroned. 
Gutenberg's  letters  of  lead  are  about  to  supersede  Orpheus's 
letters  of  stone. 

The  look  is  about  to  kill  the  edifice. 

The  invention  of  printing  is  the  greatest  event  in  history. 
It  is  the  mother  of  revolution.  It  is  the  mode  of  expression 
of  humanity  which  is  totally  renewed ;  it  is  human  thought 
stripping  off  one  form  and  donning  another ;  it  is  the  complete 
and  definitive  change  of  skin  of  that  symbolical  serpent  which 
since  the  days  of  Adam  has  represented  intelligence. 

In   its  printed  form,   thought  is   more   imperishable  than 


200  NOTRE-DAME. 

ever ;  it  is  volatile,  irresistible,  indestructible.  It  is  mingled 
with  the  air.  In  the  days  of  architecture  it  made  a  moun- 
tain of  itself,  and  took  powerful  possession  of  a  century  and 
a  place.  Now  it  converts  itself  into  a  flock  of  birds,  scatters 
itself  to  the  four  winds,  and  occupies  all  points  of  air  and 
space  at  once. 

We  repeat,  who  does  not  perceive  that  in  this  form  it  is 
far  more  indelible  ?  It  was  solid,  it  has  become  alive.  It 
passes  from  duration  in  time  to  immortality.  One  can  demol- 
ish a  mass ;  how  can  one  extirpate  ubiquity  ?  If  a  flood 
comes,  the  mountains  will  have  long  disappeared  beneath  the 
waves,  while  the  birds  will  still  be  flying  about ;  and  if  a 
single  ark  floats  on  the  surface  of  the  cataclysm,  they  will 
alight  upon  it,  will  float  with  it,  will  be  present  with  it  at 
the  ebbing  of  the  waters ;  and  the  new  world  which  emerges 
from  this  chaos  will  behold,  on  its  awakening,  the  thought  of 
the  world  which  has  been  submerged  soaring  above  it,  winged 
and  living. 

And  when  one  observes  that  this  mode  of  expression  is  not 
only  the  most  conservative,  but  also  the  most  simple,  the 
most  convenient,  the  most  practicable  for  all ;  when  one 
reflects  that  it  does  not  drag  after  it  bulky  baggage,  and  does 
not  set  in  motion  a  heavy  apparatus;  when  one  compares 
thought  forced,  in  order  to  transform  itself  into  an  edifice,  to 
put  in  motion  four  or  five  other  arts  and  tons  of  gold,  a  whole 
mountain  of  stones,  a  whole  forest  of  timber-work,  a  whole 
nation  of  workmen;  when  one  compares  it  to  the  thought 
which  becomes  a  book,  and  for  which  a  little  paper,  a  little 
ink,  and  a  pen  suffice,  — how  can  one  be  surprised  that  human 
intelligence  should  have  quitted  architecture  for  printing ;' 
Cut  the  primitive  bed  of  a  river  abruptly  with  a  canal  hol- 
lowed out  below  its  level,  and  the  river  will  desert  its  bed. 

Behold  how,  beginning  with  the  discovery  of  printing, 
architecture  withers  away  little  by  little,  becomes  lifeless  and 
bare.  How  one  feels  the  water  sinking,  the  sap  departing, 
the  thought  of  the  times  and  of  the  people  withdrawing  from 
it !  The  chill  is  almost  imperceptible  in  the  fifteenth  century ; 
the  press  is,  as  yet,  too  weak,  and,  at  the  most,  draws  from 


THIS   WILL  RILL   THAT.  201 

powerful  architecture  a  superabundance  of  life.  But  prac- 
tically beginning  with  the  sixteenth  century,  the  malady  of 
architecture  is  visible ;  it  is  no  longer  the  expression  of  society ; 
it  becomes  classic  art  in  a  miserable  manner;  from  being 
Gallic,  European,  indigenous,  it  becomes  Greek  and  Roman; 
from  being  true  and  modern,  it  becomes  pseudo-classic.  It  is 
this  decadence  which  is  called  the  Renaissance.  A  magnifi- 
cent decadence,  however,  for  the  ancient  Gothic  genius,  that 
sun  which  sets  behind  the  gigantic  press  of  Mayence,  still 
penetrates  for  a  while  longer  with  its  rays  that  whole  hybrid 
pile  of  Latin  arcades  and  Corinthian  columns. 

It  is  that  setting  sun  which  we  mistake  for  the  dawn. 

Nevertheless,  from  the  moment  when  architecture  is  no 
longer  anything  but  an  art  like  any  other ;  as  soon  as  it  is  no 
longer  the  total  art,  the  sovereign  art,  the  tyrant  art,  —  it  has 
no  longer  the  power  to  retain  the  other  arts.  So  they  eman- 
cipate themselves,  break  the  yoke  of  the  architect,  and  take 
themselves  off,  each  one  in  its  own  direction.  Each  one  of 
them  gains  by  this  divorce.  Isolation  aggrandizes  everything. 
Sculpture  becomes  statuary,  the  image  trade  becomes  paint- 
ing, the  canon  becomes  music.  One  would  pronounce  it  an 
empire  dismembered  at  the  death  of  its  Alexander,  and  whose 
provinces  become  kingdoms. 

Hence  Raphael,  Michael  Angelo,  Jean  Goujori,  Palestrina, 
those  splendors  of  the  dazzling  sixteenth  century. 

Thought  emancipates  itself  in  all  directions  at  the  same  time 
as  the  arts.  The  arch-heretics  of  the  Middle  Ages  had  already 
made  large  incisions  into  Catholicism.  The  sixteenth  century 
breaks  religious  unity.  Before  the  invention  of  printing, 
reform  would  have  been  merely  a  schism ;  printing  converted 
it  into  a  revolution.  Take  away  the  press ;  heresy  is  ener- 
vated. Whether  it  be  Providence  or  Fate,  Gutenburg  is 
the  precursor  of  Luther. 

Nevertheless,  when  the  sun  of  the  Middle  Ages  is  com- 
pletely set,  when  the  Gothic  genius  is  forever  extinct  upon 
the  horizon,  architecture  grows  dim,  loses  its  color,  becomes 
more  and  more  effaced.  The  printed  book,  the  gnawing  worm 
of  the  edifice,  sucks  and  devours  it.  It  becomes  bare,  denuded 


202  NOTRE-DAME. 

of  its  foliage,  and  grows  visibly  emaciated.  It  is  petty,  it  is 
poor,  it  is  nothing.  It  no  longer  expresses  anything,  not  even 
the  memory  of  the  art  of  another  time.  Reduced  to  itself,  aban- 
doned by  the  other  arts,  because  human  thought  is  abandoning 
it,  it  summons  bunglers  in  place  of  artists.  Glass  replaces  the 
painted  windows.  The  stone-cutter  succeeds  the  sculptor. 
Farewell  all  sap,  all  originality,  all  life,  all  intelligence.  It 
drags  along,  a  lamentable  workshop  mendicant,  from  copy  to 
copy.  Michael  Angelo,  who,  no  doubt,  felt  even  in  the  six- 
teenth century  that  it  was  dying,  had  a  last  idea,  an  idea  of 
despair.  That  Titan  of  art  piled  the  Pantheon  on  the  Par- 
thenon, and  made  Saint-Peter's  at  Rome.  A  great  work, 
which  deserved  to  remain  unique,  the  last  originality  of 
architecture,  the  signature  of  a  giant  artist  at  the  bottom  of 
the  colossal  register  of  stone  which  was  closed  forever.  With 
Michael  Angelo  dead,  what  does  this  miserable  architecture. 
which  survived  itself  in  the  state  of  a  spectre,  do  ?  It  takes 
Saint-Peter  in  Rome,  copies  it  and  parodies  it.  It  is  a  mania. 
It  is  a  pity.  Each  century  has  its  Saint-Peter's  of  Rome  ;  in 
the  seventeenth  century,  the  Val-de-Grace ;  in  the  eighteenth, 
Sainte-Genevieve.  Each  country  has  its  Saint-Peter's  of 
Rome.  London  has  one ;  Petersburg  has  another ;  Paris  has 
two  or  three.  The  insignificant  testament,  the  last  dotage  of 
a  decrepit  grand  art  falling  back  into  infancy  before  it  dies. ' 

If,  in  place  of  the  characteristic  monuments  which  we  have 
just  described,  we  examine  the  general  aspect  of  art  from  the 
sixteenth  to  the  eighteenth  century,  we  notice  the  same  phe- 
nomena of  decay  and  phthisis.  Beginning  with  Francois  II., 
the  architectural  form  of  the  edifice  effaces  itself  more  and 
more,  and  allows  the  geometrical  form,  like  the  bony  struct- 
ure of  an  emaciated  invalid,  to  become  prominent.  The  fine 
lines  of  art  give  way  to  the  cold  and  inexorable  lines  of 
geometry.  An  edifice  is  no  longer  an  edifice ;  it  is  a  polyhe- 
dron. Meanwhile,  architecture  is  tormented  in  her  struggles 
to  conceal  this  nudity.  Look  at  the  Greek  pediment  inscribed 
upon  the  Roman  pediment,  and  vice  versa.  It  is  still  the 
Pantheon  on  the  Parthenon:  Saint-Peter's  of  Rome.  Here 
are  the  brick  houses  of  Henri  IV.,  with  their  stone  corners ; 


THIS   WILL  KILL   THAT.  203 

the  Place  Royale,  the  Place  Dauphine.  Here  are  the  churches 
of  Louis  XIII.,  heavy,  squat,  thickset,  crowded  together, 
loaded  with  a  dome  like  a  hump.  Here  is  the  Mazarin  arch- 
itecture, the  wretched  Italian  pasticcio  of  the  Four  Nations. 
Here  are  the  palaces  of  Louis  XIV.,  long  barracks  for  cour- 
tiers, stiff,  cold,  tiresome.  Here,  finally,  is  Louis  XV.,  with 
chiccory  leaves  and  vermicelli,  and  all  the  warts,  and  all  the 
fungi,  which  disfigure  that  decrepit,  toothless,  and  coquettish 
old  architecture.  From  Franqois  II.  to  Louis  XV.,  the  evil 
has  increased  in  geometrical  progression.  Art  has  no  longer 
anything  but  skin  upon  its  bones.  It  is  miserably  perishing. 

Meanwhile  what  becomes  of  printing  ?  All  the  life  which 
is  leaving  architecture  comes  to  it.  In  proportion  as  archi- 
tecture ebbs,  printing  swells  and  grows.  That  capital  of 
forces  which  human  thought  had  been  expending  in  edifices, 
it  henceforth  expends  in  books.  Thus,  from  the  sixteenth 
century  onward,  the  press,  raised  to  the  level  of  decaying 
architecture,  contends  with  it  and  kills  it.  In  the  seven- 
teenth century  it  is  already  sufficiently  the  sovereign,  suffi- 
ciently triumphant,  sufficiently  established  in  its  victory,  to 
give  to  the  world  the  feast  of  a  great  literary  century.  In 
the  eighteenth,  having  reposed  for  a  long  time  at  the  Court 
of  Louis  XIV.,  it  seizes  again  the  old  sword  of  Luther,  puts  it 
into  the  hand  of  Voltaire,  and  rushes  impetuously  to  the 
attack  of  that  ancient  Europe,  whose  architectural  expres- 
sion it  has  already  killed.  At  the  moment  when  the  eigh- 
teenth century  comes  to  an  end,  it  has  destroyed  everything. 
In  the  nineteenth,  it  begins  to  reconstruct. 

Now,  we  ask,  which  of  the  three  arts  has  really  represented 
human  thought  for  the  last  three  centuries  ?  which  translates 
it  ?  which  expresses  not  only  its  literary  and  scholastic 
vagaries,  but  its  vast,  profound,  universal  movement  ?  which 
constantly  superposes  itself,  without  a  break,  without  a  gap, 
upon  the  human  race,  which  walks  a  monster  with  a  thousand 
legs  ?  —  Architecture  or  printing  ? 

It  is  printing.  Let  the  reader  make  no  mistake  ;  architect- 
are  is  dead ;  irretrievably  slain  by  the  printed  book,  —  slain 
because  it  endures  for  a  shorter  time,  —  slain  because  it  costs 


004  NOTEE-DAME. 

more.  Every  cathedral  represents  millions.  Let  the  reader 
now  imagine  what  an  investment  of  funds  it  would  require  to 
rewrite  the  architectural  book  ;  to  cause  thousands  of  edifices 
to  swarm  once  more  upon  the  soil ;  to  return  to  those  epochs 
when  the  throng  of  monuments  was  such,  according  to  the 
statement  of  an  eye  witness,  "  that  one  would  have  said  that 
the  world  in  shaking  itself,  had  cast  off  its  old  garments  in 
order  to  cover  itself  with  a  white  vesture  of  churches."  Erat 
enim  ut  si  mundiis,  ipse  excutiendo  semet,  rejecta  vetustate,  can- 
didam  ecclesiarum  vestem  indueret.  (GLABER  RADOLPHUS.) 

A  book  is  so  soon  made,  costs  so  little,  and  can  go  so  far  ! 
How  can  it  surprise  us  that  all  human  thought  flows  in  this 
channel  ?  This  does  not  mean  that  architecture  will  not 
still  have  a  fine  monument,  an  isolated  masterpiece,  here  and 
there.  We  may  still  have  from  time  to  time,  under  the  reign 
of  printing,  a  column  made  I  suppose,  by  a  whole  army  from 
melted  cannon,  as  we  had  under  the  reign  of  architecture, 
Iliads  and  Romanceros,  Mahabahrata,  and  Nibelungen  Lieds, 
made  by  a  whole  people,  with  rhapsodies  piled  up  and  melted 
together.  The  great  accident  of  an  architect  of  genius  may 
happen  in  the  twentieth  century,  like  that  of  Dante  in  the 
thirteenth.  But  architecture  will  no  longer  be  the  social  art, 
the  collective  art,  the  dominating  art.  The  grand  poem,  the 
grand  edifice,  the  grand  work  of  humanity  will  no  longer  be 
built :  it  will  be  printed. 

And  henceforth,  if  architecture  should  arise  again  acci- 
dentally, it  will  no  longer  be  mistress.  It  will  be  subser- 
vient to  the  law  of  literature,  which  formerly  received  the 
law  from  it.  The  respective  positions  of  the  two  arts  will  be 
inverted.  It  is  certain  that  in  architectural  epochs,  the  poems, 
rare  it  is  true,  resemble  the  monuments.  In  India,  Vyasa  is 
branching,  strange,  impenetrable  as  a  pagoda.  In  Egyptian 
Orient,  poetry  has  like  the  edifices,  grandeur  and  tranquillity 
of  line ;  in  antique  Greece,  beauty,  serenity,  calm ;  in  Chris- 
tian Europe,  the  Catholic  majesty,  the  popular  naivete, 
the  rich  and  luxuriant  vegetation  of  an  epoch  of  renewal. 
The  Bible  resembles  the  Pyramids  ;  the  Iliad,  the  Parthenon ; 
Homer,  Phidias.  Dante  in  the  thirteenth  century  is  the  last 


THIS    WILL   KILL    THAT.  205 

Ptomanesque  church ;  Shakespeare  in  the  sixteenth,  the  last 
Gothic  cathedral. 

Thus,  to  sum  up  what  we  have  hitherto  said,  in  a  fashion 
which  is  necessarily  incomplete  and  mutilated,  the  human 
race  has  two  books,  two  registers,  two  testaments :  masonry 
and  printing ;  the  Bible  of  stone  and  the  Bible  of  paper.  No 
doubt,  when  one  contemplates  these  two  Bibles,  laid  so  broadly 
open  in  the  centuries,  it  is  permissible  to  regret  the  visible 
majesty  of  the  writing  of  granite,  thole  gigantic  alphabets 
formulated  in  colonnades,  in  pylons,  in  obelisks,  those  sorts  of 
human  mountains  which  cover  the  world  and  the  past,  from 
the  pyramid  to  the  bell  tower,  from  Cheops  .to  Strasburg. 
The  past  must  be  reread  upon  these  pages  of  marble.  This 
book,  written  by  architecture,  must  be  admired  and  perused 
incessantly ;  but  the  grandeur  of  the  edifice  which  printing 
erects  in  its  turn  must  not  be  denied. 

That  edifice  is  colossal.  Some  compiler  of  statistics  has 
calculated,  that  if  all  the  volumes  which  have  issued  from  the 
press  since  Gutenberg's  day  were  to  be  piled  one  upon  another, 
they  would  fill  the  space  between  the  earth  and  the  moon ; 
but  it  is  not  that  sort  of  grandeur  of  which  we  wished  to 
speak.  Nevertheless,  when  one  tries  to  collect  in  one's  mind 
a  comprehensive  image  of  the  total  products  of  printing  down 
to  our  own  days,  does  not  that  total  appear  to  us  like  an 
immense  construction,  resting  upon  the  entire  world,  at  which 
humanity  toils  without  relaxation,  and  whose  monstrous  crest 
is  lost  in  the  profound  mists  of  the  future  ?  It  is  the  aut- 

lill  of  intelligence.  It  is  the  hive  whither  come  all  imagina- 
tions, those  golden  bees,  with  their  honey. 

The  edifice  has  a  thousand  stories.  Here  and  there  one 
beholds  on  its  staircases  the  gloomy  caverns  of  science  which 

>ierce  its  interior.  Everywhere  upon  its  surface,  art  causes 
its  arabesques,  rosettes,  and  laces  to  thrive  luxuriantly  before 
the  eyes.  There,  every  individual  work,  however  capricious 
and  isolated  it  may  seem,  has  its  place  and  its  projection. 
Harmony  results  from  the  whole.  From  the  cathedral  of 
Shakespeare  to  the  mosque  of  Byron,  a  thousand  tiny  bell 
towers  are  piled  pell-mell  above  this  metropolis  of  universal 


206  NOTRE-DAME. 

thought.  At  its  base  are  written  some  ancient  titles  of 
humanity  which  architecture  had  not  registered.  To  the  left 
of  the  entrance  has  been  fixed  the  ancient  bas-relief,  in  white 
marble,  of  Homer ;  to  the  right,  the  polyglot  Bible  rears  its 
seven  heads.  The  hydra  of  the  Romancero  and  some  other 
hybrid  forms,  the  Vedas  and  the  Nibelungen  bristle  further  on. 
Nevertheless,  the  prodigious  edifice  still  remains  incomplete. 
The  press,  that  giant  machine,  which  incessantly  pumps  all 
the  intellectual  sap*  of  society,  belches  forth  without  pause 
fresh  materials  for  its  work.  The  whole  human  race  is  on  the 
scaffoldings.  Each  mind  is  a  mason.  The  humblest  fills  his 
hole,  or  places  his  stone.  Retif  de  le  Bretonne  brings  his  hod 
of  plaster.  Every  day  a  new  course  rises.  Independently  of 
the  original  and  individual  contribution  of  each  writer,  there 
are  collective  contingents.  The  eighteenth  century  gives  the 
Encyclopedia,  the  revolution  gives  the  Moniteur.  Assuredly, 
it  is  a  construction  which  increases  and  piles  up  in  endless 
spirals ;  there  also  are  confusion  of  tongues,  incessant  activ- 
ity, indefatigable  labor,  eager  competition  of  all  humanity, 
refuge  promised  to  intelligence,  a  new  Flood  against  an  over- 
flow of  barbarians.  It  is  the  second  tower  of  Babel  of  the 
human  race. 


BOOK  SIXTH. 


CHAPTER  I. 

AX    IMPARTIAL    GLAXCE    AT    THE    ANCIENT    MAGISTRACY. 

A  VERY  happy  personage  in  the  year  of  grace  1482,  was  the 
noble  gentleman  Robert  d'Estouteville,  chevalier,  Sieur  de 
Beyne,  Baron  d'lvry  and  Saint  Andry  en  la  Marche,  counsellor 
and  chamberlain  to  the  king,  and  guard  of  the  provostship  of 
Paris.  It  was  already  nearly  seventeen  years  since  he  had 
received  from  the  king,  on  November  7,  1465,  the  comet 
year,*  that  fine  charge  of  the  provostship  of  Paris,  which  was 
reputed  rather  a  seigneury  than  an  office.  Dignitas,  says 
Joannes  Loemnoeus,  quce  cum  non  exigua  potestate  politiam 
concernente,  atque  prwrofjativis  multis  et  juribus  conjuncta  est. 
A  marvellous  thing  in  '82  was  a  gentleman  bearing  the  king's 
commission,  and  whose  letters  of  institution  ran  back  to  the 
epoch  of  the  marriage  of  the  natural  daughter  of  Louis  XL 
with  Monsieur  the  Bastard  of  Bourbon. 

The  same  day  on  which  Robert  d'Estouteville  took  the  place 
of  Jacques  de  Villiers  in  the  provostship  of  Paris,  Master 
Jehan  Dauvet  replaced  Messire  Helye  de  Thorrettes  in  the 
first  presidency  of  the  Court  of  Parliament,  Jehan  Jouvenel 

*  This  comet  against  which  Pope  Calixtus,  uncle  of  Borgia,  ordered 
public  prayers,  is  the  same  which  reappeared  in  1835. 

207 


208  NOTRE-DAME. 

des  Ursins  supplanted  Pierre  de  Morvilliers  in  the  office  of 
chancellor  of  France,  Regnault  des  Dormans  ousted  Pierre 
Puy  from  the  charge  of  master  of  requests  in  ordinary  of  the 
king's  household.  Now,  upon  how  many  heads  had  the  presi- 
dency, the  chancellorship,  the  mastership  passed  since  Robert 
d'Estouteville  had  held  the  provostship  of  Paris.  It  had  been 
"  granted  to  him  for  safekeeping,"  as  the  letters  patent  said ; 
and  certainly  he  kept  it  well.  He  had  clung  to  it,  he  had 
incorporated  himself  with  it,  he  had  so  identified  himself 
with  it  that  he  had  escaped  that  fury  for  change  which  pos- 
sessed Louis  XI.,  a  tormenting  and  industrious  king,  whose 
policy  it  was  to  maintain  the  elasticity  of  his  power  by  fre- 
quent appointments  and  revocations.  More  than  this ;  the 
brave  chevalier  had  obtained  the  reversion  of  the  office  for  his 
son,  and  for  two  years  already,  the  name  of  the  noble  man 
Jacques  d'Estouteville,  equerry,  had  figured  beside  his  at  the 
head  of  the  register  of  the  salary  list  of  the  provostship  of 
Paris.  A  rare  and  notable  favor  indeed  !  It  is  true  that 
Robert  d'Estouteville  was  a  good  soldier,  that  he  had  loyally 
raised  his  pennon  against  "  the  league  of  public  good,"  and 
that  he  had  presented  to  the  queen  a  very  marvellous  stag  in 
confectionery  on  the  day  of  her  entrance  to  Paris  in  14.  ... 
Moreover,  he  possessed  the  good  friendship  of  Messire  Tristan 
1'Hermite,  provost  of  the  marshals  of  the  king's  household. 
Hence  a  very  sweet  and  pleasant  existence  was  that  of  Mes- 
sire Robert.  In  the  first  place,  very  good  wages,  to  which 
were  attached,  and  from  which  hung,  like  extra  bunches  of 
grapes  on  his  vine,  the  revenues  of  the  civil  and  criminal 
registries  of  the  provostship,  plus  the  civil  and  criminal  reve- 
nues of  the  tribunals  of  Embas  of  the  Chatelet,  without  reck- 
oning some  little  toll  from  the  bridges  of  Mantes  and  of 
Corbeil,  and  the  profits  on  the  craft  of  Shagreen-makers  of 
Paris,  on  the  corders  of  firewood  and  the  measurers  of  salt. 
Add  to  this  the  pleasure  of  displaying  himself  in  rides  about 
the  city,  and  of  making  his  fine  military  costume,  which  you 
may  still  admire  sculptured  on  his  tomb  in  the  abbey  of 
Valmont  in  Normandy,  and  his  morion,  all  embossed  at 
Montlhery,  stand  out  a  contrast  against  the  parti-colored 


THE  ANCIENT  MAGISTRACY.  209 

red  and  tawny  robes  of  the  aldermen  and  police.  And  then, 
was  it  nothing  to  wield  absolute  supremacy  over  the  sergeants 
of  the  police,  the  porter  and  watch  of  the  Chatelet,  the  two 
auditors  of  the  Chatelet,  auditores  castelleti,  the  sixteen  com- 
missioners of  the  sixteen  quarters,  the  jailer  of  the  Chatelet, 
the  four  enfeoffed  sergeants,  the  hundred  and  twenty  mounted 
sergeants,  with  maces,  the  chevalier  of  the  watch  with  his 
watch,  his  sub-watch,  his  counter-watch  and  his  rear-watch  ? 
Was  it  nothing  to  exercise  high  and  low  justice,  the  right  to 
interrogate,  to  hang  and  to  draw,  without  reckoning  petty 
jurisdiction  in  the  first  resort  (in  prima  instantia,  as  the  char- 
ters say),  on  that  viscomty  of  Paris,  so  nobly  appanaged  with 
seven  noble  bailiwicks  ?  Can  anything  sweeter  be  imagined 
than  rendering  judgments  and  decisions,  as  Messire  Robert 
d'Estouteville  daily  did  in  the  Grand  Chatelet,  under  the  large 
and  flattened  arches  of  Philip  Augustus  ?  and  going,  as  he 
was  wont  to  do  every  evening,  to  that  charming  house  situated 
in  the  Rue  Galilee,  in  the  enclosure  of  the  royal  palace,  which 
he  held  in  right  of  his  wife,  Madame  Ambroise  de  Lore,  to 
repose  after  the  fatigue  of  having  sent  some  poor  wretch  to 
pass  the  night  in  "  that  little  cell  of  the  Rue  de  Escorcherie, 
which  the  provosts  and  aldermen  of  Paris  used  to  make  their 
prison ;  the  same  being  eleven  feet  long,  seven  feet  and  four 
inches  wide,  and  eleven  feet  high  ?  "  * 

And  not  only  had  Messire  Robert  d'Estouteville  his  special 
court  as  provost  and  vicomte  of  Paris;  but  in  addition  he 
had  a  share,  both  for  eye  and  tooth,  in  the  grand  court  of  the 
king.  There  was  no  head  in  the  least  elevated  which  had  not 
passed  through  his  hands  before  it  came  to  the  headsman.  It 
was  he  who  went  to  seek  M.  de  Nemours  at  the  Bastille  Saint 
Antoine,  in  order  to  conduct  him  to  the  Halles ;  and  to  con- 
duct to  the  Greve  M.  de  Saint-Pol,  who  clamored  and  resisted, 
to  the  great  joy  of  the  provost,  who  did  not  love  monsieur  the 
constable. 

Here,  assuredly,  is  more  than  sufficient  to  render  a  life 
happy  and  illustrious,  and  to  deserve  some  day  a  notable  page 
in  that  interesting  history  of  the  provosts  of  Paris,  where 
*  Comptes  du  domaine,  1383. 


21 Q  NO  TRE-DAME. 

one  learns  that  Oudard  de  Villeneuve  had  a  house  in  the  Rue 
des  Boucheries,  that  Guillaume  de  Hangest  purchased  the 
great  and  the  little  Savoy,  that  Guillaume  Thiboust  gave  the 
nuns  of  Sainte-Genevieve  his  houses  in  the  Kue  Clopin,  that 
Hugues  Aubriot  lived  in  the  Hotel  du  Pore-Epic,  and  other 
domestic  facts. 

Nevertheless,  with  so  many  reasons  for  taking  life  patiently 
and  joyously,  Messire  Robert  d'Estouteville  woke  up  on  the 
morning  of  the  seventh  of  January,  1482,  in  a  very  surly  and 
peevish  mood.  Whence  came  this  ill  temper  ?  He  could  not 
have  told  himself.  Was  it  because  the  sky  was  gray  ?  or  was 
the  buckle  of  his  old  belt  of  Montlhery  badly  fastened,  so 
that  it  confined  his  provostal  portliness  too  closely  ?  had  he 
beheld  ribald  fellows,  marching  in  bands  of  four,  beneath  his 
window,  and  setting  him  at  defiance,  in  doublets  but  no  shirts, 
hats  without  crowns,  with  wallet  and  bottle  at  their  side  ? 
Was  it  a  vague  presentiment  of  the  three  hundred  and  seventy 
livres,  sixteen  sous,  eight  farthings,  which  the  future  King 
Charles  VII.  was  to  cut  off  from  the  provostship  in  the  follow- 
ing year  ?  The  reader  can  take  his  choice  ;  we,  for  our  pa  it, 
are  much  inclined  to  believe  that  he  was  in  a  bad  humor, 
simply  because  he  was  in  a  bad  humor. 

Moreover,  it  was  the  day  after  a  festival,  a  tiresome  day 
for  every  one,  and  above  all  for  the  magistrate  who  is  charged 
with  sweeping  away  all  the  filth,  properly  and  figuratively 
speaking,  which  a  festival  day  produces  in  Paris.  And  then 
he  had  to  hold  a  sitting  at  the  Grand  Chatelet.  Now,  we 
have  noticed  that  judges  in  general  so  arrange  matters  that 
their  day  of  audience  shall  also  be  their  day  of  bad  humor, 
so  that  they  may  always  have  some  one  upon  whom  to  vent 
it  conveniently,  in  the  name  of  the  king,  law,  and  justice. 

However,  the  audience  had  begun  without  him.  His  lieu- 
tenants, civil,  criminal,  and  private,  were  doing  his  work, 
according  to  usage ;  and  from  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
some  scores  of  bourgeois  and  bourgeoises,  heaped  and  crowded 
into  an  obscure  corner  of  the  audience  chamber  of  Embas  du 
Chatelet,  between  a%  stout  oaken  barrier  and  the  wall,  had  been 
gazing  blissfully  at  the  varied  and  cheerful  spectacle  of  civil 


THE  ANCIENT  MAGISTRACY.  211 

and  criminal  justice  dispensed  by  Master  Florian  Barbedienne, 
auditor  of  the  Chatelet,  lieutenant  of  monsieur  the  provost,  in 
a  somewhat  confused  and  utterly  haphazard  manner. 

The  hall  was  small,  low,  vaulted.  A  table  studded  with 
fleurs-de-lis  stood  at  one  end,  with  a  large  arm-chair  of  carved 
oak,  which  belonged  to  the  provost  and  was  empty,  and  a  stool 
on  the  left  for  the  auditor,  Master  Florian.  Below  sat  the 
clerk  of  the  court,  scribbling ;  opposite  was  the  populace  ;  and 
in  front  of  the  door,  and  in  front  of  the  table  were  many  ser- 
geants of  the  provostship  in  sleeveless  jackets  of  violet 
camlet,  with  white  crosses.  Two  sergeants  of  the  Parloir- 
aux-Bourgeois,  clothed  in  their  jackets  of  Toussaint,  half  red, 
half  blue,  were  posted  as  sentinels  before  «a  low,  closed  door, 
which  was  visible  at  the  extremity  of  the  hall,  behind  the 
table.  A  single  pointed  window,  narrowly  encased  in  the 
thick  wall,  illuminated  with  a  pale  ray  of  January  sun  two 
grotesque  figures,  —  the  capricious  demon  of  stone  carved  as 
a  tail-piece  in  the  keystone  of  the  vaulted  ceiling,  and  the 
judge  seated  at  the  end  of  the  hall  on  the  fleurs-de-lis. 

Imagine,  in  fact,  at  the  provost's  table,  leaning  upon  his 
elbows  between  two  bundles  of  documents  of  cases,  with  his 
foot  on  the  train  of  his  robe  of  plain  brown  cloth,  his  face 
buried  in  his  hood  of  white  lamb's  skin,  of  which  his  brows 
seemed  to  be  of  a  piece,  red,  crabbed,  winking,  bearing  majes- 
tically the  load  of  fat  on  his  cheeks  which  met  under  his 
chin.  Master  Florian  Barbedienne,  auditor  of  the  Chatelet. 

Now,  the  auditor  was  deaf.  A  slight  defect  in  an  auditor. 
Master  Florian  delivered  judgment,  none  the  less,  without 
appeal  and  very  suitably.  It  is  certainly  quite  sufficient  for  a 
judge  to  have  the  air  of  listening;  and  the  venerable  auditor 
fulfilled  this  condition,  the  sole  one  in  justice,  all  the  better 
because  his  attention  could  not  be  distracted  by  any  noise. 

Moreover,  he  had  in  the  audience,  a  pitiless  censor  of  his 
deeds  and  gestures,  in  the  person  of  our  friend  Jehan  Frollo 
clu  Moulin,  that  little  student  of  yesterday,  that  "stroller," 
whom  one  was  sure  of  encountering  all  over  Paris,  anywhere 
except  before  the  rostrums  of  the  professors. 

"  Stay,"  he   said   in   a  low  tone   to   his   companion,   Eobin 


212  NOTBE-DAME. 

Poussepain,  who  was  grinning  at  his  side,  while  he  was  mak- 
ing his  comments  on  the  scenes  which  were  being  unfolded 
before  his  eyes,  "yonder  is  Jehanneton  du  Buisson.  The 
beautiful  daughter  of  the  lazy  dog  at  the  Marche-Neuf !  — 
Upon  my  soul,  he  is  condemning  her,  the  old  rascal !  he  has 
no  more  eyes  than  ears.  Fifteen  sous,  four  farthings,  paris- 
ian,  for  having  worn  two  rosaries  !  'Tis  somewhat  dear.  Lex 
duri  carminis.  Who's  that  ?  Robin  Chief-de-Ville,  hauberk- 
maker.  For  having  been  passed  and  received  master  of  the 
said  trade !  That's  his  entrance  money.  He  !  two  gentle- 
men among  these  knaves  !  Aiglet  de  Soins,  Hutin  de  Mailly 
Two  equerries,  Corpus  Christi  !  Ah  !  they  have  been  playing 
at  dice.  When  shalj  I  see  our  rector  here  ?  A  hundred  livrew 
parisian,  fine  to  the'  king !  That  Barbedienne  strikes  like  a 
deaf  man, — as  he  is!  I'll  be  my  brother  the  archdeacon,  if 
that  keeps  me  from  gaming  ;  gaming  by  day,  gaming  by  night, 
living  at  play,  dying  at  play,  and  gaming  away  my  soul  after 
my  shirt.  Holy  Virgin,  what  damsels  !  One  after  the  other, 
my  lambs.  Ambroise  Lecuyere,  Isabeau  la  Paynette,  Berarde 
Gironin !  I  know  them  all,  by  Heavens  !  A  fine  !  a  fine  I 
That's  what  will  teach  you  to  wear  gilded  girdles  !  ten  sou« 
parisis  !  you  coquettes  !  Oh  !  the  old  snout  of  a  judge  !  deaf 
and  imbecile  !  Oh !  Florian  the  dolt !  Oh  !  Barbedienne  the 
blockhead !  There  he  is  at  the  table  !  He's  eating  the 
plaintiff,  he's  eating  the  suits,  he  eats,  he  chews,  he  crams, 
he  fills  himself.  Fines,  lost  goods,  taxes,  expenses,  loyal 
charges,  salaries,  damages,  and  interests,  gehenna,  prison,  and 
jail,  and  fetters  with  expenses  are  Christmas  spice  cake  and 
marchpanes  of  Saint-John  to  him  !  Look  at  him,  the  pig  !  — 
Come !  Good !  Another  amorous  woman !  Thibaud-la-Thi- 
baude,  neither  more  nor  less  !  For  having  come  from  the  Rue 
Glatigny !  What  fellow  is  this  ?  Gieffroy  Mabonne,  gendarme 
bearing  the  crossbow.  He  has  cursed  the  name  of  the 
Father.  A  fine  for  la  Thibaude  !  A  fine  for  Gieffroy  !  A 
fine  for  them  both !  The  deaf  old  fool !  he  must  have  mixed 
up  the  two  cases  !  Ten  to  one  that  he  makes  the  wench  pay 
for  the  oath  and  the  gendarme  for  the  amour !  Attention, 
Robin  Poussepain !  What  are  they  going  to  bring  in  ?  Here 


THE  ANCIENT  MAGISTRACY.  213 

are  many  sergeants  !  By  Jupiter  !  all  the  bloodhounds  of  the 
pack  are  there.  It  must  be  the  great  beast  of  the  hunt  —  a 
wild  boar.  And  'tis  one,  Kobin,  'tis  one.  And  a  fine  one  too ! 
Hercle  !  'tis  our  prince  of  yesterday,  our  Pope  of  the  Fools, 
our  bellringer,  our  one-eyed  man,  our  hunchback,  our  grimace ! 
'Tis  Quasimodo  !"  — 

It  was  he  indeed. 

It  was  Quasimodo,  bound,  encircled,  roped,  pinioned,  and 
under  good  guard.  The  squad  of  policemen  who  surrounded 
him  was  assisted  by  the  chevalier  of  the  watch  in  person, 
wearing  the  arms  of  France  embroidered  on  his  breast,  and 
the  arms  of  the  city  on  his  back.  There  was  nothing,  how- 
ever, about  Quasimodo,  except  his  defoj-mity,  which  could 
justify  the  display  of  halberds  and  arquebuses;  he  was 
gloomy,  silent,  and  tranquil.  Only  now  and  then  did  his 
single  eye  cast  a  sly  and  wrathful  glance  upon  the  bonds  with 
which  he  was  loaded. 

He  cast  the  same  glance  about  him,  but  it  was  so  dull  and 
sleepy  that  the  women  only  pointed  him  out  to  each  other  in 
derision. 

Meanwhile  Master  Florian,  the  auditor,  turned  over  atten- 
tively the  document  in  the  complaint  entered  against  Quasi- 
modo, which  the  clerk  handed  him,  and,  having  thus  glanced 
at  it,  appeared  to  reflect  for  a  moment.  Thanks  to  this 
precaution,  which  he  always  was  careful  to  take  at  the  moment 
when  on  the  point  of  beginning  an  examination,  he  knew 
beforehand  the  names,  titles,  and  misdeeds  of  the  accused, 
made  cut  and  dried  responses  to  questions  foreseen,  and  suc- 
ceeded in  extricating  himself  from  all  the  windings  of  the 
interrogation  without  allowing  his  deafness  to  be  too  apparent. 
The  written  charges  were  to  him  what  the  dog  is  to  the 
blind  man.  If  his  deafness  did  happen  to  betray  him  here 
and  there,  by  some  incoherent  apostrophe  or  some  unintelli- 
gible question,  it  passed  for  profundity  with  some,  and  for 
imbecility  with  others.  In  neither  case  did  the  honor  of  the 
magistracy  sustain  any  injury ;  for  it  is  far  better  that  a  judge 
should  be  reputed  imbecile  or  profound  than  deaf.  Hence  he 
took  great  care  to  conceal  his  deafness  from  the  eyes  of  all, 


214  NOTRE-DAME. 

and  he  generally  succeeded  so  well  that  he  had  reached  the 
point  of  deluding  himself,  which  is,  by  the  way,  easier  than 
is  supposed.  All  hunchbacks  walk  with  their  heads  held 
high,  all  stutterers  harangue,  all  deaf  people  speak  low.  As 
for  him,  he  believed,  at  the  most,  that  his  ear  was  a  little 
refractory.  It  was  the  sole  concession  which  he  made  on  this 
point  to  public  opinion,  in  his  moments  of  frankness  and. 
examination  of  his  conscience. 

Having,  then,  thoroughly  ruminated  Quasimodo's  affair,  he 
threw  back  his  head  and  half  closed  his  eyes,  for  the  sake  of 
more  majesty  and  impartiality,  so  that,  at  that  moment,  he  was 
both  deaf  and  blind.  A  double  condition,  without  which  no 
judge  is  perfect.  It  was  in  this  magisterial  attitude  that  he 
began  the  examination. 

"Your  name?" 

Now  this  was  a  case  which  had  not  been  "  provided  for  by 
law,"  where  a  deaf  man  should  be  obliged  to  question  a 
deaf  man. 

Quasimodo,  whom  nothing  warned  that  a  question  had  been 
addressed  to  him,  continued  to  stare  intently  at  the  judge,  and 
made  no  reply.  The  judge,  being  deaf,  and  being  in  no  way 
warned  of  the  deafness  of  the  accused,  thought  that  the  latter 
had  answered,  as  all  accused  do  in  general,  and  therefore  he 
pursued,  with  his  mechanical  and  stupid  self-possession,  — 

"  Very  well.     And  your  age  ?  " 

Again  Quasimodo  made  no  reply  to  this  question.  The  judge 
supposed  that  it  had  been  replied  to,  and  continued,  — 

"  Now,  your  profession  ?  " 

Still  the  same  silence.  The  spectators  had  begun,  mean- 
while, to  whisper  together,  and  to  exchange  glances. 

"That -will  do,"  went  on  the  imperturbable  auditor,  when  he 
supposed  that  the  accused  had  finished  his  third  reply.  "  You 
are  accused  before  us,  primo,  of  nocturnal  disturbance; 
secundo,  of  a  dishonorable  act  of  violence  upon  the  person  of 
a  foolish  woman,  in  pra>judicium  meretricis  ;  tertio,  of  rebellion 
and  disloyalty  towards  the  archers  of  the  police  of  our  lord, 
the  king.  Explain  yourself  upon  all  these  points.  —  Clerk. 
have  you  written  down  what  the  prisoner  has  said  thus  far  ?  " 


THE  ANCIENT  MAGISTRACY.  215 

At  this  unlucky  question,  a  burst  of  laughter  rose  from  the 
clerk's  table  caught  by  the  audience,  so  violent,  so  wild,  so 
contagious,  so  universal,  that  the  two  deaf  men  were  forced 
to  perceive  it.  Quasimodo  turned  round,  shrugging  his  hump 
with  disdain,  while  Master  Florian,  equally  astonished,  and 
supposing  that  the  laughter  of  the  spectators  had  been  pro- 
voked by  some  irreverent  reply  from  the  accused,  rendered 
visible  to  him  by  that  shrug  of  the  shoulders,  apostrophized 
him  indignantly,  — 

"  You  have  uttered  a  reply,  knave,  which  deserves  the  halter. 
Do  you  know  to  whom  you  are  speaking  ?  " 

This  sally  was  not  fitted  to  arrest  the  explosion  of  general 
merriment.  It  struck  all  as  so  whimsical,  and  so  ridiculous, 
that  the  wild  laughter  even  attacked  the  sergeants  of  the  Par- 
loir-aux-Bourgeois,  a  sort  of  pikemen,  whose  stupidity  was  part 
of  their  uniform.  Quasimodo  alone  preserved  his  seriousness, 
for  the  good  reason  that  he  understood  nothing  of  what  was 
going  on  around  him.  The  judge,  more  and  more  irritated, 
thought  it  his  duty  to  continue  in  the  same  tone,  hoping 
thereby  to  strike  the  accused  with  a  terror  which  should  react 
upon  the  audience,  and  bring  it  back  to  respect. 

"  So  this  is  as  much  as  to  say,  perverse  and  thieving  knave 
that  you  are,  that  you  permit  yourself  to  be  lacking  in  respect 
towards  the  Auditor  of  the  Chatelet,  to  the  magistrate  com- 
mitted to  the  popular  police  of  Paris,  charged  with  searching 
out  crimes,  delinquencies,  and  evil  conduct ;  with  controlling 
all  trades,  and  interdicting  monopoly  ;  with  maintaining  the 
pavements  ;  with  debarring  the  hucksters  of  chickens,  poultry, 
and  water-fowl ;  of  superintending  the  measuring  of  fagots  and 
other  sorts  of  wood ;  of  purging  the  city  of  mud,  and  the  air 
of  contagious  maladies  ;  in  a  word,  with  attending  continually 
to  public  affairs,  without  wages  or  hope  of  salary !  Do  you 
know  that  I  am  called  Florian  Barbedienne,  actual  lieutenant 
to  monsieur  the  provost,  and,  moreover,  commissioner,  inquis- 
itor, controller,  and  examiner,  with  equal  power  in  provostship, 
bailiwick,  preservation,  and  inferior  court  of  judicature  ?- 

There  is  no  reason  why  a  deaf  man  talking  to  a  deaf  man 
should  stop.  God  knows  where  and  when  Master  Florian 


216  NOTRE-DAME. 

would  have  landed,  when  thus  launched  at  full  speed  in  lefty  elo- 
quence, if  the  low  door  at  the  extreme  end  of  the  room  had  not 
suddenly  opened,  and  given  entrance  to  the  provost  in  person. 

At  his  entrance  Master  Florian  did  not  stop  short,  but,  mak- 
ing a  half-turn  on  his  heels,  and  aiming  at  the  provost  the 
harangue  with  which  he  had  been  withering  Quasimodo  a 
moment  before,  — 

"Monseigneur,"  said  he,  "I  demand  such  penalty  as  you 
shall  deem  fitting  against  the  prisoner  here  present,  for  grave 
and  aggravated  offence  against  the  court." 

And  he  seated  himself,  utterly  breathless,  wiping  away  the 
great  drops  of  sweat  which  fell  from  his  brow  and  drenched, 
like  tears,  the  parchments  spread  out  before  him.  Messire 
Eobert  d'Estouteville  frowned  and  made  a  gesture  so  imperi- 
ous and  significant  to  Quasimodo,  that  the  deaf  man  in  some 
measure  understood  it. 

The  provost  addressed  him  with  severity,  "  What  have  you 
done  that  you  have  been  brought  hither,  knave  ?  " 

The  poor  fellow,  supposing  that  the  provost  was  asking  his 
name,  broke  the  silence  which  he  habitually  preserved,  and 
replied,  in  a  harsh  and  guttural  voice,  "Quasimodo." 

The  reply  matched  the  question  so  little  that  the  wild 
laugh  began  to  circulate  once  more,  and  Messire  Robert 
exclaimed,  red  with  wrath,  — 

"  Are  you  mocking  me  also,  you  arrant  knave  ?  " 

"Bellringer  of  Xotre-Dame,"  replied  Quasimodo,  supposing 
that  what  was  required  of  him  was  to  explain  to  the  judge 
who  he  was. 

"  Bellringer ! "  interpolated  the  provost,  who  had  waked  up 
early  enough  to  be  in  a  sufficiently  bad  temper,  as  we  have 
said,  not  to  require  to  have  his  fury  inflamed  by  such  strange 
responses.  "Bellringer!  I'll  play  you  a  chime  of  rods  on 
your  back  through  the  squares  of  Paris !  Do  you  hear. 
knave  ? " 

"  If  it  is  my  age  that  you  wish  to  know,"  said  Quasimodo, 
"  I  think  that  I  shall  be  twenty  at  Saint  Martin's  day." 

This  was  too  much ;  the  provost  could  no  longer  restrain 
himself. 


j 


THE  ANCIENT  MAGISTRACY.  217 

"  Ah !  you  are  scoffing  at  the  provostship,  wretch  !  Mes- 
sieurs the  sergeants  of  the  mace,  you  will  take  me  this  knave 
to  the  pillory  of  the  Greve,  you  will  flog  him,  and  turn 
him  for  an  hour.  He  shall  pay  me  for  it,  tete  Dieu  !  And  I 
order  that  the  present  judgment  shall  be  cried,  with  the 
assistance  of  four  sworn  trumpeters,  in  the  seven  castel- 
lanies  of  the  viscointy  of  Paris." 

The  clerk  set  to  work  incontinently  to  draw  up  the  account 
of  the  sentence. 

"  Venire  Dieu!  'tis  well  adjudged!"  cried  the  little  scholar, 
Jehan  Frollo  du  Moulin,  from  his  corner. 

The  provost  turned  and  fixed  his  flashing  eyes  once  more  on 
Quasimodo.  "  I  believe  the  knave  said  '  Ventre  Dieu  ! '  Clerk, 
add  twelve  deniers  Parisian  for  the  oath,  and  let  the  vestry 
of  Saint  Eustache  have  the  half  of  it;  I  have  a  particular 
devotion  for  Saint  Eustache." 

In  a  few  minutes  the  sentence  was  drawn  up.  Its  tenor 
was  simple  and  brief.  The  customs  of  the  provostship  and 
the  viscointy  had  not  yet  been  worked  over  by  President 
Thibaut  Baillet,  and  by  Eoger  Barmne,  the  king's  advocate  ; 
they  had  not  been  obstructed,  at  that  time,  by  that  lofty 
hedge  of  quibbles  and  procedures,  which  the  two  jurisconsults 
planted  there  at  the  beginning  of  the  sixteenth  century.  All 
was  clear,  expeditious,  explicit.  One  went  straight  to  the 
point  then,  and  at  the  end  of  every  path  there  was  immediately 
visible,  without  thickets  and  without  turnings,  the  wheel,  the 
gibbet,  or  the  pillory.  One  at  least  knew  whither  one  was 
going. 

The  clerk  presented  the  sentence  to  the  provost,  who 
affixed  his  seal  to  it,  and  departed  to  pursue  his  round  of  the 
audience  hall,  in  a  frame  of  mind  which  seemed  destined  to 
till  all  the  jails  in  Paris  that  day.  Jehan  Frollo  and  Kobin 
Poussepain  laughed  in  their  sleeves.  Quasimodo  gazed  on 
the  whole  with  an  indifferent  and  astonished  air. 

However,  at  the  moment  when  Master  Florian  Barbedienne 
was  reading  the  sentence  in  his  turn,  before  signing  it,  the 
clerk  felt  himself  moved  with  pity  for  the  poor  wretch  of  a 
prisoner,  and,  in  the  hope  of  obtaining  some  mitigation  of  the 


21 8  NO  TRE-DAME. 

penalty,  he  approached  as  near  the  auditor's  ear  as  possible, 
and  said,  pointing  to  Quasimodo,  "  That  man  is  deaf." 

He  hoped  that  this  community  of  infirmity  would  awaken 
Master  Florian's  interest  in  behalf  of  the  condemned  man. 
But,  in  the  first  place,  we  have  already  observed  that  Master 

Florian   did  not  care  to  have  his  deafness  noticed.     In  the 

• 

next  place,  he  was  so  hard  of  hearing  that  he  did  not  catch  a 
single  word  of  what  the  clerk  said  to  him ;  nevertheless,  he 
wished  to  have  the  appearance  of  hearing,  and  replied,  "  Ah ! 
ah !  that  is  different ;  I  did  not  know  that.  An  hour  more  of 
the  pillory,  in  that  case." 

And  he  signed  the  sentence  thus  modified. 

"  'Tis  well  done,"  said  Robin  Poussepain,  who  cherished  a 
grudge  against  Quasimodo.  "  That  will  teach  him  to  handle 
people  roughly." 


CHAPTER  II. 


THE    RAT-HOLE. 

THE  reader  must  permit  us  to  take  him  back  to  the  Place 
de  Greve,  which  we  quitted  yesterday  with  Gringoire,  in 
order  to  follow  la  Esmeralda. 

It  is  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning ;  everything  is  indicative  of 
the  day  after  a  festival.  The  pavement  is  covered  with  rub- 
bish ;  ribbons,  rags,  feathers  from  tufts  of  plumes,  dr*ops  of 
wax  from  the  torches,  crumbs  of  the  public  feast.  A  goodly 
number  of  bourgeois  are  "sauntering,"  as  we  say,  here  and 
there,  turning  over  with  their  feet  the  extinct  brands  of  the 
bonfire,  going  into  raptures  in  front  of  the  Pillar  House,  over 
the  memory  of  the  fine  hangings  of  the  day  before,  and 
to-day  staring  at  the  nails  that  secured  them  a  last  pleasure. 
The  venders  of  cider  and  beer  are  rolling  their  barrels  among 
the  groups.  Some  busy  passers-by  come  and  go.  The  mer- 
chants converse  and  call  to  each  other  from  the  thresholds  of 
their  shops.  The  festival,  the  ambassadors,  Coppenole,  the 
Pope  of  the  Fools,  are  in  all  mouths;  they  vie  with  each 
other,  each  trying  to  criticise  it  best  and  laugh  the  most. 
And,  meanwhile,  four  mounted  sergeants,  who  have  just 
posted  themselves  at  the  four  sides  of  the  pillory,  have 
already  concentrated  around  themselves  a  goodly  proportion 
of  the  populace  scattered  on  the  Place,  who  condemn  them- 
selves to  immobility  and  fatigue  in  the  hope  of  a  small  exe- 
cution. 

219 


220  NOTRE-DAME. 

If  the  reader,  after  having  contemplated  this  lively  and 
noisy  scene  which  is  being  enacted  in  all  parts  of  the  Place, 
will  now  transfer  his  gaze  towards  that  ancient  demi-Gothic, 
demi-Komanesque  house  of  the  Tour-Roland,  which  forms  the 
corner  on  the  quay  to  the  west,  he  will  observe,  at  the  angle 
of  the  facade,  a  large  public  breviary,  with  rich  illuminations, 
protected  from  the  rain  by  a  little  penthouse,  and  from  thieves 
by  a  small  grating,  which,  however,  permits  of  the  leaves  being 
turned.  Beside  this  breviary  is  a  narrow,  arched  window, 
closed  by  two  iron  bars  in  the  form  of  a  cross,  and  looking  on 
the  square ;  the  only  opening  which  admits  a  small  quantity 
of  light  and  air  to  a  little  cell  without  a  door,  constructed  on 
the  ground-floor,  in  the  thickness  of  the  walls  of  the  old  house, 
and  filled  with  a  peace  all  the  more  profound,  with  a  silence 
all  the  more  gloomy,  because  a  public  place,  the  most  populous 
and  most  noisy  in  Paris  swarms  and  shrieks  around  it. 

This  little  cell  had  been  celebrated  in  Paris  for  nearly  three 
centuries,  ever  since  Madame  Rolande  de  la  Tour-Eoland,  in 
mourning  for  her  father  who  died  in  the  Crusades,  had  caused 
it  to  be  hollowed  out  in  the  wall  of  her  own  house,  in  order 
to  immure  herself  there  forever,  keeping  of  all  her  palace 
only  this  lodging  whose  door  was  walled  up,  and  whose  win- 
dow stood  open,  winter  and  summer,  giving  all  the  rest  to  the 
poor  and  to  God.  The  afflicted  damsel  had,  in  fact,  waited 
twenty  years  for  death  in  this  premature  tomb,  praying  night 
and  day  for  the  soul  of  her  father,  sleeping  in  ashes,  without 
even  a  stone  for  a  pillow,  clothed  in  a  black  sack,  and  subsist- 
ing on  the  bread  and  water  which  the  compassion  of  the 
passers-by  led  them  to  deposit  on  the  ledge  of  her  window, 
thus  receiving  charity  after  having  bestowed  it.  At  her  death, 
at  the  moment  when  she  was  passing  to  the  other  sepulchre, 
she  had  bequeathed  this  one  in  perpetuity  to  afflicted  women, 
mothers,  widows,  or  maidens,  who  should  wish  to  pray  much 
for  others  or  for  themselves,  and  who  should  desire  to  inter 
themselves  alive  in  a  great  grief  or  a  great  penance.  The  poor 
of  her  day  had  made  her  a  fine  funeral,  with  tears  and  bene- 
dictions ;  but,  to  their  great  regret,  the  pious  maid  had  not 
been  canonized,  for  lack  of  influence.  Those  among  them  who 


THE  RAT-HOLE.  221 

were  a  little  inclined  to  impiety,  had  hoped  that  the  matter 
might  be  accomplished  in  Paradise  more  easily  than  at  Rome, 
and  had  frankly  besought  God,  instead  of  the  pope,  in  behalf 
of  the  deceased.  The  majority  had  contented  themselves  with 
holding  the  memory  of  Rolande  sacred,  and  converting  her 
rags  into  relics.  The  city,  on  its  side,  had  founded  in  honor 
of  the  damoiselle,  a  public  breviary,  which  had  been  fastened 
near  the  window  of  the  cell,  in  order  that  passers-by  might 
halt  there  from  time  to  time,  were  it  only  to  pray ;  that  prayer 
might  remind  them  of  alms,  and  that  the  poor  recluses,  heir- 
esses of  Madame  Rolande's  vault,  might  not  die  outright  of 
hunger  and  forgetfulness. 

Moreover,  this  sort  of  tomb  was  not  so  very  rare  a  thing  in 
the  cities  of  the  Middle  Ages.  One  often  encountered  in 
the  most  frequented  street,  in  the  most  crowded  and  noisy 
market,  in  the  very  middle,  under  the  feet  of  the  horses, 
under  the  wheels  of  the  carts,  as  it  were,  a  cellar,  a  well,  a 
tiny  walled  and  grated  cabin,  at  the  bottom  of  which  a  human 
being  prayed  night  and  day,  voluntarily  devoted  to  some  eter- 
nal lamentation,  to  some  great  expiation.  And  all  the  reflec- 
tions which  that  strange  spectacle  would  awaken  in  us  to-day ; 
that  horrible  cell,  a  sort  of  intermediary  link  between  a  house 
and  the  tomb,  the  cemetery  and  the  city ;  that  living  being 
cut  off  from  the  human  community,  and  thenceforth  reckoned 
among  the  dead ;  that  lamp  consuming  its  last  drop  of  oil  in 
the  darkness;  that  remnant  of  life  flickering  in  the  grave; 
that  breath,  that  voice,  that  eternal  prayer  in  a  box  of  stone ; 
that  face  forever  turned  towards  the  other  world ;  that  eye 
already  illuminated  with  another  sun ;  that  ear  pressed  to  the 
walls  of  a  tomb ;  that  soul  a  prisoner  in  that  body ;  that  body 
»  a  prisoner  in  that  dungeon  cell,  and  beneath  that  double 
envelope  of  flesh  and  granite,  the  murmur  of  that  soul  in 
pain;  — nothing  of  all  this  was  perceived  by  the  crowd. 

The  piety  of  that  age,  not  very  subtle  nor  much  given  to 
reasoning,  did  not  see  so  many  facets  in  an  act  of  religion. 
It  took  the  thing  in  the  block,  honored,  venerated,  hallowed 
the  sacrifice  at  need,  but  did  not  analyze  the  sufferings,  and 
felt  but  moderate  pity  for  them.  It  brought  some  pittance  to 


222  NOTRE-DAME. 

the  miserable  penitent  from  time  to  time,  looked  through  the 
hole  to  see  whether  he  were  still  living,  forgot  his  name, 
hardly  knew  how  many  years  ago  he  had  begun  to  die,  and  to 
the  stranger,  who  questioned  them  about  the  living  skeleton 
who  was  perishing  in  that  cellar,  the  neighbors  replied  simply, 
"  It  is  the  recluse." 

Everything  was  then  viewed  without  metaphysics,  without 
exaggeration,  without  magnifying  glass,  with  the  naked  eye. 
The  microscope  had  not  yet  been  invented,  either  for  things  of 
matter  or  for  things  of  the  mind. 

Moreover,  although  people  were  but  little  surprised  by  it, 
the  examples  of  this  sort  of  cloistration  in  the  hearts  of  cities 
were  in  truth  frequent,  as  we  have  just  said.  There  were  in 
Paris  a  considerable  number  of  these  cells,  for  praying  to  God 
and  doing  penance ;  they  were  nearly  all  occupied.  It  is  true 
that  the  clergy  did  not  like  to  have  them  empty,  since  that 
implied  lukewarmness  in  believers,  and  that  lepers  were  put 
into  them  when  there  were  no  penitents  on  hand.  Besides  the 
cell  on  the  Greve,  there  was  one  at  Montfaucon,  one  at  the 
Charnier  des  Innocents,  another  I  hardly  know  where,  —  at 
the  Clichon  House,  I  think ;  others  still  at  many  spots  where 
traces  of  them  are  found  in  traditions,  in  default  of  memo- 
rials. The  University  had  also  its  own.  On  Mount  Sainte- 
Genevieve  a  sort  of  Job  of  the  Middle  Ages,  for  the  space  of 
thirty  years,  chanted  the  seven  penitential  psalms  on  a  dung- 
hill at  the  bottom  of  a  cistern,  beginning  anew  when  he  had 
finished,  singing  loudest  at  night,  magna  voce  per  umbras,  and 
to-day,  the  antiquary  fancies  that  he  hears  his  voice  as  he 
enters  the  Kue  du  Puits-qui-parle  —  the  street  of  the  "  Speak- 
ing Well." 

To  confine  ourselves  to  the  cell  in  the  Tour-Roland,  we  must 
say  that  it  had  never  lacked  recluses.  After  the  death  of 
Madame  Roland,  it  had  stood  vacant  for  a  year  or  two, 
though  rarely.  Many  women  had  come  thither  to  mourn, 
until  their  death,  for  relatives,  lovers,  faults.  Parisian  mal- 
ice, which  thrusts  its  finger  into  everything,  even  into  things 
which  concern  it  the  least,  affirmed  that  it  had  beheld  but 
few  widows  there. 


THE  RAT-HOLE.  223 

In  accordance  with  the  fashion  of  the  epoch,  a  Latin  in- 
scription on  the  wall  indicated  to  the  learned  passer-by  the 
pious  purpose  of  this  cell.  The  custom  was  retained  until 
the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  century  of  explaining  an  edifice 
by  a  brief  device  inscribed  above  the  door.  Thus,  one  still 
reads  in  France,  above  the  wicket  of  the  prison  in  the  seigno- 
rial  mansion  of  Tourville,  Sileto  et  spera  ;  in  Ireland,  beneath 
the  armorial  bearings  which  surmount  the  grand  door  to 
Fortescue  Castle,  forte  scutum,  salus  ducum;  in  England, 
over  the  principal  entrance  to  the  hospitable  mansion  of  the 
Earls  Cowper :  Tuum  est.  At  that  time  every  edifice  was  a 
thought. 

As  there  was  no  door  to  the  walled  cell  of  the  Tour-Roland, 
these  two  words  had  been  carved  in  large  Roman  capitals 
over  the  window,  — 

TU,    ORA. 

And  this  caused  the  people,  whose  good  sense  does  not  per- 
ceive so  much  refinement  in  things,  and  likes  to  translate 
Liidoi-ico  Mayno  by  Porte  Saint-Denis,  to  give  to  this  dark, 
gloomy,  damp  cavity,  the  name  of  "  The  Rat-Hole.  An 
explanation  less  sublime,  perhaps,  than  the  other ;  but,  on  the 
other  hand,  more  picturesque. 


CHAPTER    III. 


HISTORY    OF    A    LEAVENED    CAKE    OF    MAIZE. 

AT  the  epoch  of  this  history,  the  cell  in  the  Tour-Roland 
was  occupied.  If  the  reader  desires  to  know  by  whom,  he 
has  only  to  lend  an  ear  to  the  conversation  of  three  worthy 
gossips,  who,  at  the  moment  when  we  have  directed  his  at- 
tention to  the  Eat-Hole,  were  directing  their  steps  towards 
the  same  spot,  coming  up  along  the  water's  edge  from  the 
Chatelet,  towards  the  Greve. 

Two  of  these  women  were  dressed  like  good  bourgeoises  of 
Paris.  Their  fine  white  niffs;  their  petticoats  of  linsey- 
woolsey,  striped  red  and  blue ;  their  white  knitted  stockings, 
with  clocks  embroidered  in  colors,  well  drawn  upon  their 
legs  ;  the  square-toed  shoes  of  tawny  leather  with  black  soles, 
and,  above  all,  their  headgear,  that  sort  of  tinsel  horn,  loaded 
down  with  ribbons  and  laces,  which  the  women  of  Champagne 
still  wear,  in  company  with  the  grenadiers  of  the  imperial 
guard  of  Russia,  announced  that  they  belonged  to  that  class 
of  wealthy  merchant's  wives  which  holds  the  middle  ground 
between  what  the  lackeys  call  a  woman  and  what  they  term  a 
lady.  They  wore  neither  rings  nor  gold  crosses,  and  it  was 
easy  to  see  that,  in  their  case,  this  did  not  proceed  from  pov- 
erty, but  simply  from  fear  of  being  fined.  Their  companion 
was  attired  in  very  much  the  same  manner ;  but  there  was 
that  indescribable  something  about  her  dress  and  bearing 
which  suggested  the  wife  of  a  provincial  notary.  One  could 
see,  by  the  way  in  which  her  girdle  rose  above  her  hips,  that 


HISTORY  OF  A   LEAVENED  CAKE  OF  MAIZE.      225 

she  had  not  been  long  in  Paris.  Add  to  this  a  plaited  tucker, 
knots -of  ribbon  on  her  shoes  —  and  that  the  stripes  of  her 
petticoat  ran  horizontally  instead  of  vertically,  and  a  thou- 
sand other  enormities  which  shocked  good  taste. 

The  two  first  walked  with  that  step  peculiar  to  Parisian 
ladies,  showing  Paris  to  women  from  the  country.  The  pro- 
vincial held  by  the  hand  a  big  boy,  who  held  in  his  a  large, 
flat  cake. 

We  regret  to  be  obliged  to  add,  that,  owing  to  the  rigor  of 
the  season,  he  was  using  his  tongue  as  a  handkerchief. 

The  child  was  making  them  drag  him  along,  non  passibus 
(eqriis,  as  Virgil  says,  and  stumbling  at  every  moment,  to  the 
great  indignation  of  his  mother.  It  is  true  that  he  was  look- 
ing at  his  cake  more  than  at  the  pavement.  Some  serious 
motive,  no  doubt,  prevented  his  biting  it  (the  cake),  for  he 
contented  himself  with  gazing  tenderly  at  it.  But  the  mother 
should  have  rather  taken  charge  of  the  cake.  It  was  cruel  to 
make  a  Tantalus  of  the  chubby-cheeked  boy. 

Meanwhile,  the  three  demoiselles  (for  the  name  of  dames 
was  then  reserved  for  noble  women)  were  all  talking  at  once. 

"  Let  us  make  haste,  Demoiselle  Mahiette,"  said  the  young- 
est of  the  three,  who  was  also  the  largest,  to  the  provincial, 
"  I  greatly  fear  that  we  shall  arrive  too  late  ;  they  told  us  at 
the  Chatelet  that  they  were  going  to  take  him  directly  to 
the  pillory." 

"  Ah,  bah  !  what  are  you  saying,  Demoiselle  Oudarde  Mus- 
nier  ?  "  interposed  the  other  Parisienue.  "  There  are  two 
hours  yet  to  the  pillory.  We  have  time  enough.  Have  you 
ever  seen  any  one  pilloried,  my  dear  Mahiette  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  provincial,  "  at  Reims." 

"  Ah,  bah !  What  is  your  pillory  at  Reims  ?  A  miserable 
cage  into  which  only  peasants  are  turned.  A  great  affair, 
truly ! " 

"  Only  peasants  ! "  said  Mahiette,  "  at  the  cloth  market  in 
Reims  !  We  have  seen  very  fine  criminals  there,  who  have 
killed  their  father  and  mother !  Peasants  !  For  what  do  you 
take  us,  Gervaise  ?  " 

It  is  certain  that  the  provincial  was  on  the  point  of  taking 


226  NOTRK-DAXX. 

offence,  for  the  honor  of  her  pillory.  Fortunately,  that  dis- 
creet damoiselle,  Oudarde  Musnier,  turned  the  conversation  in 
time. 

"By  the  way,  Damoiselle  Mahiette,  what  say  you  to  our 
Flemish  Ambassadors  ?  Have  you  as  fine  ones  at  Eeims  ?  '' 

"  I  admit,"  replied  Mahiette,  "  that  it  is  only  in  Paris  that 
such  Flemings  can  be  seen." 

"  Did  you  see  among  the  embassy,  that  big  ambassador  who 
is  a  hosier  ?  "  asked  Oudarde. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mahiette.     "  He  has  the  eye  of  a  Saturn." 

"  And  the  big  fellow  whose  face  resembles  a  bare  belly  ?  " 
resumed  Gervaise.  "And  the  little  one,  with  small  eyes 
framed  in  red  eyelids,  pared  down  and  slashed  up  like  a  thistle 
head  ?  " 

"'Tis  their  horses  that  are  worth  seeing,"  said  Oudarde, 
"caparisoned  as  they  are  after  the  fashion  of  their  country ! " 

"  Ah  my  dear,"  interrupted  provincial  Mahiette,  assuming 
in  her  turn  an  air  of  superiority,  "  what  would  you  say  then, 
if  you  had  seen  in  '61,  at  the  consecration  at  Reims,  eighteen 
years  ago,  the  horses  of  the  princes  and  of  the  king's  com- 
pany ?  Housings  and  caparisons  of  all  sorts  ;  some  of  damask 
cloth,  of  fine  cloth  of  gold,  furred  with  sables ;  others  of  vel- 
vet, furred  with  ermine ;  others  all  embellished  with  gold- 
smith's work  and  large  bells  of  gold  and  silver !  And  what 
money  that  had  cost !  And  what  handsome  boy  pages  rode 
upon  them ! " 

"  That,"  replied  Oudarde  dryly,  "  does  not  prevent  the  Flem- 
ings having  very  fine  horses,  and  having  had  a  superb  supper 
yesterday  with  monsieur,  the  provost  of  the  merchants,  at  the 
Hotel-de-Ville,  where  they  were  served  with  comfits  and 
hippocras,  and  spices,  and  other  singularities." 

"  What  are  you  saying,  neighbor ! "  exclaimed  Gervaise. 
"  It  was  with  monsieur  the  cardinal,  at  the  Petit  Bourbon 
that  they  supped." 

"  Xot  at  all.     At  the  Hotel-de-Ville. 

"  Yes,  indeed.     At  the  Petit  Bourbon ! " 

"It  was  at  the  Hotel-de-Ville,"  retorted  Oudarde  sharply, 
"and  Dr.  Scourable  addressed  them  a  harangue  in  Latin, 


HISTORY  OF  A   LEAVENED   CAKE  OF  MAIZE.      227 

which   pleased  them   greatly.     My   husband,   who   is   sworn 
bookseller  told  me  so." 

"  It  was  at  the  Petit  Bourbon,"  replied  Gervaise,  with  no 
less  spirit,  "  and  this  is  what  monsieur  the  cardinal's  procura- 
tor presented  to  them :  twelve  double  quarts  of  hippocras, 
white,  claret,  and  red ;  twenty -four  boxes  of  double  Lyons 
marchpane,  gilded ;  as  many  torches,  worth  two  livres  a  piece ; 
and  six  demi-queues  *  of  Beaune  wine,  white  and  claret,  the 
best  that  could  be  found.  I  have  it  from  my  husband,  who  is 
a  cinquantenier,  f  at  the  Parloir-aux  Bourgeois,  and  who  was 
this  morning  comparing  the  Flemish  ambassadors  with  those 
of  Prester  John  and  the  Emperor  of  Trebizond,  who  came 
from  Mesopotamia  to  Paris,  under  the  last  king,  and  who  wore 
rings  in  their  ears." 

"  So  true  is  it  that  they  supped  at  the  H6tel-de-Ville,"  re- 
plied Oudardej  but  little  affected  by  this  catalogue,  "  that  such 
a  triumph  of  viands  and  comfits  has  never  been  seen." 

"  I  tell  you  that  they  were  served  by  Le  Sec,  sergeant  of  the 
city,  at  the  Hotel  du  Petit-Bourbon,  and  that  that  is  where 
you  are  mistaken." 

"At  the  H6tel-de-Ville,  I  tell  you  !  " 

"  At  the  Petit-Bourbon,  my  dear !  and  they  had  illuminated 
with  magic  glasses  the  word  Hope,  which  is  written  on  the 
grand  portal." 

"  At  the  H6tel-de-Ville  !  At  the  H6tel-de-Ville  !  And  Hus- 
son-le-Voir  played  the  flute  ! " 

"  I  tell  you,  no  ! " 

"  I  tell  you,  yes  ! " 

"  I  say,  no  ! " 

Plump  and  worthy  Oudarde  was  preparing  to  retort,  and 
the  quarrel  might,  perhaps,  have  proceeded  to  a  pulling  of 
caps,  had  not  Mahiette  suddenly  exclaimed,  —  "  Look  at  those 
people  assembled  yonder  at  the  end  of  the  bridge  !  There  is 
something  in  their  midst  that  they  are  looking  at ! " 

"  In  sooth,"  said  Gervaise,  "  I  hear  the  sounds  of  a  tambour- 
ine.    I  believe  'tis  the  little  Esmeralda,  who  plays  her  mum- 
*  A  Queue  was  a  cask  which  held  a  hogshead  and  a  half. 
t  A  captain  of  fifty  men. 


o  o  ,s  NO  TEE-DA  ME. 

merles  with  her  goat.  Eh,  be  quick,  Mahiette !  redouble 
your  pace  and  drag  along  your  boy.  You  are  come  hither  to 
visit  the  curiosities  of  Paris.  You  saw  the  Flemings  yester- 
day ;  you  must  see  the  gypsy  to-day." 

"  The  gypsy ! "  said  Mahiette,  suddenly  retracing  her  steps, 
and  clasping  her  son's  arm  forcibly.  "  God  preserve  me  from 
it !  She  would  steal  my  child  from  me  !  Come,  Eustache !  " 

And  she  set  out  on  a  run  along  the  quay  towards  the  Greve, 
until  she  had  left  the  bridge  far  behind  her.  In  the  mean- 
while, the  child  whom  she  was  dragging  after  her  fell  upon 
his  knees;  she  halted  breathless.  Oudarde  and  Gervaise 
rejoined  her. 

"  That  gypsy  steal  your  child  from  you ! "  said  Gervaise. 
"  That's  a  singular  freak  of  yours  ! " 

Mahiette  shook  her  head  with  a  pensive  air. 

"  The  singular  point  is,"  observed  Oudarde,  "  that  la  sachette 
has  the  same  idea  about  the  Egyptian  woman." 

"  What  is  la  sachette  ?  "  asked  Mahiette. 

"  He  ! "  said  Oudarde,  "  Sister  Gudule." 

"  And  who  is  Sister  Gudule  ?  "  persisted  Mahiette. 

"  You  are  certainly  ignorant  of  all  but  your  Reims,  not  to 
know  that ! "  replied  Oudarde.  "  'Tis  the  recluse  of  the  Rat- 
Hole." 

"  What !  "  demanded  Mahiette,  "  that  poor  woman  to  whom 
we  are  carrying  this  cake  ?  " 

Oudarde  nodded  affirmatively. 

"  Precisely.  You  will  see  her  presently  at  her  window  on 
the  Greve.  She  has  the  same  opinion  as  yourself  of  these 
vagabonds  of  Egypt,  who  play  the  tambourine  and  tell  for- 
tunes to  the  public.  No  one  knows  whence  comes  her  horror 
of  the  gypsies  and  Egyptians.  But  you,  Mahiette  —  why  do 
you  run  so  at  the  mere  sight  of  them  ?  " 

"  Oh ! "  said  Mahiette,  seizing  her  child's  round  head  in  both 
hands,  "  I  don't  want  that  to  happen  to  me  which  happened  to 
Paquette  la  Chantefleurie." 

"  Oh  !  you  must  tell  us  that  story,  my  good  Mahiette,"  said 
Gervaise,  taking  her  arm. 

"  Gladly,"  replied  Mahiette  ;  "  but  you  must  be  ignorant  of 


HISTORY  OF  A   LEAVENED   CAKE  OF  MAIZE.      229 

all  but  your  Paris  not  to  know  that !  I  will  tell  you  then  (but 
'tis  not  necessary  for  us  to  halt  that  I  may  tell  you  the  tale), 
that  Paquette  la  Chantefleurie  was  a  pretty  maid  of  eighteen 
when  I  was  one  myself,  that  is  to  say,  eighteen  years  ago,  and 
'tis  her  own  fault  if  she  is  not  to-day,  like  me,  a  good,  plump, 
''resh  mother  of  six  and  thirty,  with  a  husband  and  a  son. 
However,  after  the  age  of  fourteen,  it  was  too  late !  Well,  she 
was  the  daughter  of  Guybertant,  minstrel  of  the  barges  at 
Reims,  the  same  who  had  played  before  King  Charles  VII.,  at 
his  coronation,  when  he  descended  our  river  Vesle  from  Sillery 
to  Muison,  when  Madame  the  Maid  of  Orleans  was  also  in  the 
boat.  The  old  father  died  when  Paquette  was  still  a  mere 
child ;  she  had  then  no  one  but  her  mother,  the  sister  of  M. 
Pradon,  master-brazier  and  coppersmith  in  Paris,  Hue  Parin- 
Garlin,  who  died  last  year.  You  see  she  was  of  good  family. 
The  mother  was  a  good  simple  woman,  unfortunately,  and  she 
taught  Paquette  nothing  but  a  bit  of  embroidery  and  toy- 
making  which  did  not  prevent  the  little  one  from  growing 
very  large  and  remaining  very  poor.  They  both  dwelt  at 
Reims,  on  the  river  front,  Rue  de  Folle-Peine.  Mark  this  : 
For  I  believe  it  was  this  which  brought  misfortune  to  Paquette. 
In  '61,  the  year  of  the  coronation  of  our  King  Louis  XI.  whom 
God  preserve !  Paquette  was  so  gay  and  so  pretty  that  she 
was  called  everywhere  by  no  other  name  than  la  Chantefleurie 
• —  blossoming  song.  Poor  girl !  She  had  handsome  teeth,  she 
was  fond  of  laughing  and  displaying  them.  Now,  a  maid  who 
loves  to  laugh  is  on  the  road  to  weeping;  handsome  teeth 
ruin  handsome  eyes.  So  she  was  la  Chantefleurie.  She  and 
her  mother  earned  a  precarious  living ;  they  had  been  very 
destitute  since  the  death  of  the  minstrel ;  their  embroidery 
did  not  bring  them  in  more  than  six  farthings  a  week,  which 
does  not  amount  to  quite  two  eagle  liards.  Where  Avere  the 
days  when  Father  Guybertant  had  earned  twelve  sous  Pari- 
sian, in  a  single  coronation,  with  a  song  ?  One  winter  (it  was 
in  that  same  year  of  '61),  when  the  two  women  had  neither 
fagots  nor  firewood,  it  was  very  cold,  which  gave  la  Chante- 
fleurie such  a  fine  color  that  the  men  called  her  Paquette !  * 
*  Ox-eye  daisy. 


230  NOTEE-DAME. 

and  many  called  her  Paquerette  !  *  and  she  was  ruined.  — 
Eustache,  just  let  me  see  you  bite  that  cake  if  you  dare !  — 
We  immediately  perceived  that  she  was  ruined,  one  Sunday 
when  she  came  to  church  with  a  gold  cross  about  her  neck. 
At  fourteen  years  of  age !  do  you  see  ?  First  it  was  the 
young  Vicomte  de  Cormontreuil,  who  has  his  bell  tower  three 
leagues  distant  from  Reims ;  then  Messire  Henri  de  Trian- 
court,  equerry  to  the  King ;  then  less  than  that,  Chiart  de 
Beaulion,  sergeant-at-arms ;  then,  still  descending,  Guery 
Aubergeon,  carver  to  the  King ;  then,  Mace  de  Frepus,  barber 
to  monsieur  the  dauphin ;  then,  The venin  le  Moine,  King's 
cook ;  then,  the  men  growing  continually  younger  and  less 
noble,  she  fell  to  Guillaume  Racine,  minstrel  of  the  hurdy- 
gurdy  and  to  Thierry  de  Mer,  lamplighter.  Then,  poor  Chante- 
fleurie,  she  belonged  to  every  one :  she  had  reached  the  last 
sou  of  her  gold  piece.  What  shall  I  say  to  you,  my  damoi- 
selles  ?  At  the  coronation,  in  the  same  year,  '61,  'twas  she 
who  made  the  bed  of  the  king  of  the  debauchees  !  In  the 
same  year ! " 

Mahiette  sighed,  and  wiped  away  a  tear  which  trickled  from 
her  eyes. 

"  This  is  no  very  extraordinary  history,"  said  Gervaise,  "  and 
in  the  whole  of  it  I  see  nothing  of  any  Egyptian  women  or 
children." 

"  Patience  !  "  resumed  Mahiette  ;  "  you  will  see  one  child. 
—  In  '66,  'twill  be  sixteen  years  ago  this  month,  at  Sainte- 
Paule's  day,  Paquette  was  brought  to  bed  of  a  little  girl.  The 
unhappy  creature  !  it  was  a  great  joy  to  her ;  she  had  long 
Avished  for  a  child.  Her  mother,  good  woman,  who  had  never 
known  what  to  do  except  to  shut  her  eyes,  her  mother  was 
dead.  Paquette  had  no  longer  any  one  to  love  in  the  world 
or  any  one  to  love  her.  La  Chantefleurie  had  been  a  poor 
creature  during  the  five  years  since  her  fall.  She  was  alone, 
alone  in  this  life,  fingers  were  pointed  at  her,  she  was  hooted 
at  in  the  streets,  beaten  by  the  sergeants,  jeered  at  by  the  lit- 
tle boys  in  rags.  And  then,  twenty  had  arrived  :  and  twenty 
is  an  old  age  for  amorous  women.  Folly  began  to  bring  her 

*  Easter  daisy. 


HISTOBY  OF  A   LEAVENED   CAKE  OF  MAIZE.      231 

in  no  more  than  her  trade  of  embroidery  in  former  days  ;  for 
every  wrinkle  that  caine,  a  crown  fled  ;  winter  became  hard  to 
her  once  more,  wood  became  rare  again  in  her  brazier,  and 
bread  in  her  cupboard.  She  could  no  longer  work  because, 
in  becoming  voluptuous,  she  had  grown  lazy ;  and  she  suffered 
much  more  because,  in  growing  lazy,  she  had  become  voluptu- 
ous. At  least,  that  is  the  way  in  which  monsieur  the  cure  of 
Saint-Remy  explains  why  these  women  are  colder  and  hungrier 
than  other  poor  women,  when  they  are  old." 

"  Yes,"  remarked  Gervaise,  "  but  the  gypsies  ?  " 

"  One  moment,  Gervaise  !  "  said  Oudarde,  whose  attention 
was  less  impatient.  "  What  would  be  left  for  the  end  if  all 
were  in  the  beginning  ?  Continue,  Mahiette,  I  entreat  you. 
That  poor  Chantefleurie  !  " 

Mahiette  went  on. 

"  So  she  was  very  sad,  very  miserable,  and  furrowed  her 
cheeks  with  tears.  But  in  the  midst  of  her  shame,  her  folly, 
her  debauchery,  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  should  be  less  wild, 
less  shameful,  less  dissipated,  if  there  were  something  or  some 
one  in  the  world  whom  she  could  love,  and  who  could  love 
her.  It  was  necessary  that  it  should  be  a  child,  because  only 
a  child  could  be  sufficiently  innocent  for  that.  She  had  recog- 
nized this  fact  after  having  tried  to  love  a  thief,  the  only  man 
who  wanted  her ;  but  after  a  short  time,  she  perceived  that 
the  thief  despised  her.  Those  women  of  love  require  either 
a  lover  or  a  child  to  fill  their  hearts.  Otherwise,  they  are 
very  unhappy.  As  she  could  not  have  a  lover,  she  turned 
wholly  towards  a  desire  for  a  child,  and  as  she  had  not  ceased 
to  be  pious,  she  made  her  constant  prayer  to  the  good  God 
for  it.  So  the  good  God  took  pity  on  her,  and  gave  her  a 
little  daughter.  I  will  not  speak  to  you  of  her  joy ;  it  was  a 
fury  of  tears,  and  caresses,  and  kisses.  She  nursed  her  child 
herself,  made  swaddling-bands  for  it  out  of  her  coverlet,  the 
only  one  which  she  had  on  her  bed,  and  no  longer  felt  either 
cold  or  hunger.  She  became  beautiful  once  more,  in  conse- 
quence of  it.  An  old  maid  makes  a  young  mother.  Gallantry 
claimed  her  once  more;  men  came  to  see  la  Chantefleurie; 
she  found  customers  again  for  her  merchandise,  and  out  of  all 


232  NOTRE-DAME. 

these  horrors  she  made  baby  clothes,  caps  and  bibs,  bodices 
with  shoulder-straps  of  lace,  and  tiny  bonnets  of  satin,  with- 
out even  thinking  of  buying  herself  another  coverlet.  — 
Master  Eustache,  I  have  already  told  you  not  to  eat  that  cake. 
—  It  is  certain  that  little  Agnes,  that  was  the  child's  name,  a 
baptismal  name,  for  it  was  a  long  time  since  la  Chantefleurie 
had  had  any  surname — it  is  certain  that  that  little  one  was 
more  swathed  in  ribbons  and  embroideries  than  a  dauphi- 
ness  of  Dauphiny !  Among  other  things,  she  had  a  pair 
of  little  shoes,  the  like  of  which  King  Louis  XI.  certainly 
never  had !  Her  mother  had  stitched  and  embroidered  them 
herself;  she  had  lavished  on  them  all  the  delicacies  of  her 
art  of  embroideress,  and  all  the  embellishments  of  a  robe  for 
the  good  Virgin.  They  certainly  were  the  two  prettiest  little 
pink  shoes  that  could  be  seen.  They  were  no  longer  than  my 
thumb,  and  one  had  to  see  the  child's  little  feet  come  out  of 
them,  in  order  to  believe  that  they  had  been  able  to  get  into 
them.  'Tis  true  that  those  little  feet  were  so  small,  so  pretty, 
so  rosy !  rosier  than  the  satin  of  the  shoes  !  When  you  have 
children,  Oudarde,  you  will  find  that  there  is  nothing  prettier 
than  those  little  hands  and  feet." 

"I  ask  no  better,"  said  Oudarde  with  a  sigh,  "but  I  am 
waiting  until  it  shall  suit  the  good  pleasure  of  M.  Andry 
Musnier." 

"  However,  Paquette's  child  had  more  that  was  pretty  about 
it  besides  its  feet.  I  saw  her  when  she  was  only  four  months 
old ;  she  was  a  love !  She  had  eyes  larger  than  her  mouth, 
and  the  most  charming  black  hair,  which  already  curled.  She 
would  have  been  a  magnificent  brunette  at  the  age  of  sixteen ! 
Her  mother  became  more  crazy  over  her  every  day.  She 
kissed  her,  caressed  her,  tickled  her,  washed  her,  decked  her 
out,  devoured  her !  She  lost  her  head  over  her,  she  thanked 
God  for  her.  Her  pretty,  little  rosy  feet  above  all  were  an 
endless  source  of  wonderment,  they  were  a  delirium  of  joy ! 
She  was  always  pressing  her  lips  to  them,  and  she  could  never 
recover  from  her  amazement  at  their  smallness.  She  put 
them  into  the  tiny  shoes,  took  them  out,  admired  them,  mar- 
velled at  them,  looked  at  the  light  through  them,  was  curious 


HISTORY  OF  A  LEAVENED   CAKE  OF  MAIZE.      233 

to  see  them  try  to  walk  on  her  bed,  and  would  gladly  have 
passed  her  life  on  her  knees,  putting  on  and  taking  off  the 
shoes  from  those  feet,  as  though  they  had  been  those  of  an 
Infant  Jesus." 

*'  The  tale  is  fair  and  good,"  said  Gervaise  in  a  low  tone ; 
"  but  where  do  gypsies  come  into  all  that  ?  " 

"Here,"  replied  Mahiette.  "One  day  there  arrived  in 
Reims  a  very  queer  sort  of  people.  They  were  beggars  and 
vagabonds  who  were  roaming  over  the  country,  led  by  their 
duke  and  their  counts.  They  were  browned  by  exposure  to 
the  sun,  they  had  closely  curling  hair,  and  silver  rings  in 
their  ears.  The  women  were  still  uglier  than  the  men.  They 
had  blacker  faces,  which  were  always  uncovered,  a  miserable 
frock  on  their  bodies,  an  old  cloth  woven  of  cords  bound 
upon  their  shoulder,  and  their  hair  hanging  like  the  tail  of  a 
horse.  The  children  who  scrambled  between  their  legs  would 
have  frightened  as  many  monkeys.  A  band  of  excommuni- 
cates. All  these  persons  came  direct  from  lower  Egypt  to 
Keims  through  Poland.  The  Pope  had  confessed  them,  it  was 
said,  and  had  prescribed  to  them  as  penance  to  roam  through 
the  world  for  seven  years,  without  sleeping  in  a  bed ;  and  so 
they  were  called  penancers,  and  smelt  horribly.  It  appears 
that  they  had  formerly  been  Saracens,  which  was  why  they 
believed  in  Jupiter,  and  claimed  ten  livres  of  Tournay  from 
all  archbishops,  bishops,  and  mitred  abbots  with  croziers.  A 
bull  from  the  Pope  empowered  them  to  do  that.  They  came 
to  Reims  to  tell  fortunes  in  the  name  of  the  King  of  Algiers, 
and  the  Emperor  of  Germany.  You  can  readily  imagine  that 
no  more  was  needed  to  cause  the  entrance  to  the  town  to  be 
forbidden  them.  Then  the  whole  band  camped  with  good 
grace  outside  the  gate  of  Braine,  on  that  hill  where  stands  a 
mill,  beside  the  cavities  of  the  ancient  chalk  pits.  And  every- 
body in  Reims  vied  with  his  neighbor  in  going  to  see  them. 
They  looked  at  your  hand,  and  told  you  marvellous  prophecies ; 
they  were  equal  to  predicting  to  Judas  that  he  would  become 
Pope.  Nevertheless,  ugly  rumors  were  in  circulation  in 
regard  to  them ;  about  children  stolen,  purses  cut,  and  human 
flesh  devoured.  The  wise  people  said  to  the  foolish:  "Don't 


234  NOTRE-DAME. 

go  there  ! "  and  then  went  themselves  on  the  sly.  It  was  an 
infatuation.  The  fact  is,  that  they  said  things  fit  to  astonish 
a  cardinal.  Mothers  triumphed  greatly  over  their  little  ones 
after  the  Egyptians  had  read  in  their  hands  all  sorts  of  mar- 
vels written  in  pagan  and  in  Turkish.  One  had  an  emperoi*; 
another,  a  pope ;  another,  a  captain.  Poor  Chantefleurie  was 
seized  with  curiosity ;  she  wished  to  know  about  herself,  and 
whether  her  pretty  little  Agnes  would  not  become  some  day 
Empress  of  Armenia,  or  something  else.  So  she  carried  her  to 
the  Egyptians ;  and  the  Egyptian  women  fell  to  admiring  the 
child,  and  to  caressing  it,  and  to  kissing  it  with  their  black 
mouths,  and  to  marvelling  over  its  little  hand,  alas !  to  the 
great  joy  of  the  mother.  They  were  especially  enthusiastic 
over  her  pretty  feet  and  shoes.  The  child  was  not  yet  a  year 
old.  She  already  lisped  a  little,  laughed  at  her  mother  like  a 
little  mad  thing,  was  plump  and  quite  round,  and  possessed  a 
thousand  charming  little  gestures  of  the  angels  of  paradise. 

She  was  very  much  frightened  by  the  Egyptians,  and  wept. 
But  her  mother  kissed  her  more  warmly  and  went  away  en- 
chanted with  the  good  fortune  which  the  soothsayers  had  fore- 
told for  her  Agnes.  She  was  to  be  a  beauty,  virtuous,  a  queen. 
So  she  returned  to  her  attic  in  the  Eue  Folle-Peine,  very 
proud  of  bearing  with  her  a  queen.  The  next  day  she  took 
advantage  of  a  moment  when  the  child  was  asleep  on  her  bed, 
(for  they  always  slept  together),  gently  left  the  door  a  little 
way  open,  and  ran  to  tell  a  neighbor  in  the  Eue  de  la  Seches- 
serie,  that  the  day  would  come  when  her  daughter  Agnes 
would  be  served  at  table  by  the  King  of  England  and  the 
Archduke  of  Ethiopia,  and  a  L^ndred  other  marvels.  On 
her  return,  hearing  no  cries  on  the  staircase,  she  said  to  her- 
self :  <  Good  !  the  child  is  still  asleep  ! '  She  found  her  door 
wider  open  than  she  had  left  it,  but  she  entered,  poor  mother, 
and  ran  to  the  bed. —The  child  was  no  longer  there,  the 
place  was  empty.  Nothing  remained  of  the  child,  but  one  of 
her  pretty  little  shoes.  She  flew  out  of  the  room,  dashed 
down  the  stairs,  and  began  to  beat  her  head  against  the  wall. 
crying :  <  My  child  !  who  has  my  child  ?  Who  has  taken  my 
child  ? '  The  street  was  deserted,  the  house  isolated ;  no 


HISTOKT  OF  A   LEAVENED   CAKE  OF  MAIZE.      235 

one  could  tell  her  anything  about  it.  She  went  about  the 
town,  searched  all  the  streets,  ran  hither  and  thither  the 
whole  day  long,  wild,  beside  herself,  terrible,  snuffing  at  doors 
and  windows  like  a  wild  beast  which  has  lost  its  young.  She 
was  breathless,  dishevelled,  frightful  to  see,  and  there  was  a 
fire  in  her  eyes  which  dried  her  tears.  She  stopped  the 
passers-by  and  cried :  '  My  daughter !  my  daughter !  my 
pretty  little  daughter !  If  any  one  will  give  me  back  my 
daughter,  I  will  be  his  servant,  the  servant  of  his  dog,  and  he 
shall  eat  my  heart  if  he  will.'  She  met  M.  le  Cure  of  Saint- 
Eemy,  and  said  to  him :  '  Monsieur,  I  will  till  the  earth  with 
my  finger-nails,  but  give  me  back  my  child ! '  It  was  heart- 
rending, Oudarde ;  and  I  saw  a  very  hard  man,  Master  Ponce 
Lacabre,  the  procurator,  weep.  Ah !  poor  mother !  In  the 
evening  she  returned  home.  During  her  absence,  a  neighbor 
had  seen  two  gypsies  ascend  up  to  it  with  a  bundle  in  their 
arms,  then  descend  again,  after  closing  the  door.  After  their 
departure,  something  like  the  cries  of  a  child  were  heard  in 
Paquette's  room.  The  mother,  burst  into  shrieks  of  laughter, 
ascended  the  stairs  as  though  on  wings,  and  entered.  —  A 
frightful  thing  to  tell,  Oudarde  !  Instead  of  her  pretty  little 
Agnes,  so  rosy  and  so  fresh,  who  was  a  gift  of  the  good  God,  a 
sort  of  hideous  little  monster,  lame,  one-eyed,  deformed,  was 
crawling  and  squalling  over  the  floor.  She  hid  her  eyes  in 
horror.  '  Oh  ! '  said  she,  '  have  the  witches  transformed  my 
daughter  into  this  horrible  animal  ? '  They  hastened  to  carry 
away  the  little  club-foot ;  he  would  have  driven  her  mad.  It 
was  the  monstrous  child  of  some  gypsy  woman,  who  had  given 
herself  to  the  devil.  He  appeared  to  be  about  four  years  old, 
and  talked  a  language  which  was  no  human  tongue ;  there 
were  words  in  it  which  were  impossible.  La  Chantefleurie 
flung  herself  upon  the  little  shoe,  all  that  remained  to  her  of 
all  that  she  loved.  She  remained  so  long  motionless  over  it, 
mute,  and  without  breath,  that  they  thought  she  was  dead. 
Suddenly  she  trembled  all  over,  covered  her  relic  with  furious 
kisses,  and  burst  out  sobbing  as  though  her  heart  were  broken. 
I  assure  you  that  we  were  all  weeping  also.  She  said :  '  Oh, 
my  little  daughter !  my  pretty  little  daughter !  where  art 


236  NOTRE-DAME. 

thou  ? '  —  and  it  wrung  your  very  heart.  I  weep  still  when  I 
think  of  it.  Our  children  are  the  marrow  of  our  bones,  you 
see.  —  My  poor  Eustache  !  thou  art  so  fair !  —  If  you  only 
knew  how  nice  he  is  !  yesterday  he  said  to  me  :  '  I  want  to  be 
a  gendarme,  that  I  do.'  Oh !  my  Eustache  !  if  I  were  to  lose 
thee  ! — All  at  once  la  Chantefleurie  rose,  and  set  out  to  run 
through  Reims,  screaming :  '  To  the  gypsies'  camp !  to  the 
gypsies'  camp !  Police,  to  burn  the  witches  ! '  The  gypsies 
were  gone.  It  was  pitch  dark.  They  could  not  be  followed. 
On  the  morrow,  two  leagues  from  Reims,  on  a  heath  between 
Gueux  and  Tilloy,  the  remains  of  a  large  fire  were  found, 
some  ribbons  which  had  belonged  to  Paquette's  child,  drops  of 
blood,  and  the  dung  of  a  ram.  The  night  just  past  had  been 
a  Saturday.  There  was  no  longer  any  doubt  that  the  Egyp- 
tians had  held  their  Sabbath  on  that  heath,  and  that  they  had 
devoured  the  child  in  company  with  Beelzebub,  as  the  practice 
is  among  the  Mahometans.  When  La  Chantefleurie  learned 
these  horrible  things,  she  did  not  weep,  she  moved  her  lips  as 
though  to  speak,  but  could  not.  On  the  morrow,  her  hair  was 
gray.  On  the  second  day,  she  had  disappeared. 

"  'Tis  in  truth,  a  frightful  tale,"  said  Oudarde,  "  and  one 
which  would  make  even  a  Burgundian  weep." 

"  I  am  no  longer  surprised,"  added  Gervaise,  "  that  fear  of 
the  gypsies  should  spur  you  on  so  sharply." 

"And  you  did  all  the  better,"  resumed  Oudarde,  "to  flee 
with  your  Eustache  just  now,  since  these  also  are  gypsies 
from  Poland." 

"  No,"  said  Gervais,  "  'tis  said  that  they  come  from  Spain 
and  Catalonia." 

"Catalonia?  'tis  possible,"  replied  Oudarde.  "Pologne, 
Catalogne,  Valogne,  I  always  confound  those  three  provinces, 
One  thing  is  certain,  that  they  are  gypsies." 

"  Who  certainly,"  added  Gervaise,  "  have  teeth  long  enough 
to  eat  little  children.  I  should  not  be  surprised  if  la  Smeralda 
ate  a  little  of  them  also,  though  she  pretends  to  be  dainty. 
Her  white  goat  knows  tricks  that  are  too  malicious  for  there 
not  to  be  some  impiety  underneath  it  all." 

Mahiette  walked  on  in  silence.     She  was  absorbed  in  that 


HISTORY  OF  A  LEAVENED   CAKE  OF  MAIZE.      237 

revery  which  is,  in  some  sort,  the  continuation  of  a  mournful 
tale,  and  which  ends  only  after  having  communicated  the 
emotion,  from  vibration  to  vibration,  even  to  the  very  last 
iibres  of  the  heart.  Nevertheless,  Gervaise  addressed  her, 
"  And  did  they  ever  learn  what  became  of  la  Chantefleurie  ?  " 
Mahiette  made  no  reply.  Gervaise  repeated  her  question,  and 
shook  her  arm,  calling  her  by  name.  Mahiette  appeared  to 
awaken  from  her  thoughts. 

"  What  became  of  la  Chantefleurie  ? "  she  said,  repeating 
mechanically  the  words  whose  impression  was  still  fresh  in 
her  ear ;  then,  making  an  effort  to  recall  her  attention  to  the 
meaning  of  her  words,  "  Ah ! "  she  continued  briskly,  "  no 
one  ever  found  out." 

She  added,  after  a  pause,  — 

"  Some  said  that  she  had  been  seen  to  quit  Reims  at  night- 
fall by  the  Flechembault  gate ;  others,  at  daybreak,  by  the  old 
Basee  gate.  A  poor  man  found  her  gold  cross  hanging  on  the 
stone  cross  in  the  field  where  the  fair  is  held.  It  was  that 
ornament  which  had  wrought  her  ruin,  in  '61.  It  was  a  gift 
from  the  handsome  Vicomte  de  Cormontreuil,  her  first  lover. 
Paquette  had  never  been  willing  to  part  with  it,  wretched  a? 
she  had  been.  She  had  clung  to  it  as  to  life  itself.  So,  when 
we  saw  that  cross  abandoned,  we  all  thought  that  she  was 
dead.  Nevertheless,  there  were  people  of  the  Cabaret  les 
Vantes,  who  said  that  they  had  seen  her  pass  along  the  road 
to  Paris,  walking  on  the  pebbles  with  her  bare  feet.  But, 
in  that  case,  she  must  have  gone  out  through  the  Porte  de 
Vesle,  and  all  this  does  not  agree.  Or,  to  speak  more  truly, 
I  believe  that  she  actually  did  depart  by  the  Porte  de  Vesle, 
but  departed  from  this  world." 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,"  said  Gervaise. 

"La  Vesle,"  replied  Mahiette,  with  a  melancholy  smile,  "is 
the  river." 

"  Poor  Chantefleurie ! "  said  Oudarde,  with  a  shiver,  — 
"  drowned  ! " 

"Drowned!"  resumed  Mahiette;  "who  could  have  told 
good  Father  Guybertant,  when  he  passed  under  the  bridge  of 
Tingueux  with  the  current,  singing  in  his  barge,  that  one  day 


238  NOTRE-DAME. 

his  dear  little  Paquette  would  also  pass  beneath  that  bridge, 
but  without  song  or  boat. 

"  And  the  little  shoe  ?  "  asked  Gervaise. 

"Disappeared  with  the  mother,"  replied  Mahiette. 

"  Poor  little  shoe  ! "  said  Oudarde. 

Oudarde,  a  big  and  tender  woman,  would  have  been  well 
pleased  to  sigh  in  company  with  Mahiette.  But  Gervaise, 
more  curious,  had  not  finished  her  questions. 

"  And  the  monster  ?  "  she  said  suddenly,  to  Mahiette. 

"  What  monster  ?  "  inquired  the  latter. 

"  The  little  gypsy  monster  left  by  the  sorceresses  in 
Chantefleurie's  chamber,  in  exchange  for  her  daughter.  What 
did  you  do  with  it  ?  I  hope  you  drowned  it  also." 

"  No."  replied  Mahiette. 

"  What  ?  You  burned  it  then  ?  In  sooth,  that  is  more 
just.  A  witch  child ! " 

"  Neither  the  one  nor  the  other,  Gervaise.  Monseigneur  the 
archbishop  interested  himself  in  the  child  of  Egypt,  exorcised 
it,  blessed  it,  removed  the  devil  carefully  from  its  body,  and 
sent  it  to  Paris,  to  be  exposed  on  the  wooden  bed  at  Notre- 
Dame,  as  a  foundling." 

"  Those  bishops  ! "  grumbled  Gervaise,  "  because  they  are 
learned,  they  do  nothing  like  anybody  else.  I  just  put  it  to 
you,  Oudarde,  the  idea  of  placing  the  devil  among  the  found- 
lings !  For  that  little  monster  was  assuredly  the  devil. 
Well,  Mahiette,  what  did  they  do  with  it  in  Paris  ?  I  am 
quite  sure  that  no  charitable  person  wanted  it." 

"I  do  not  know,"  replied  the  Kemoise;  "'twas  just  at  that 
time  that  my  husband  bought  the  office  of  notary,  at  Beru, 
two  leagues  from  the  town,  and  we  were  no  longer  occupied 
with  that  story  ;  besides,  in  front  of  Beru,  stand  the  two  hills 
of  Cernay,  which  hide  the  towers  of  the  cathedral  in  Eeims 
from  view." 

While  chatting  thus,  the  three  worthy  boin-yeoises  had  ar- 
rived at  the  Place  de  Greve.  In  their  absorption,  they  had 
passed  the  public  breviary  of  the  Tour-Eoland  without  stop- 
ping, and  took  their  way  mechanically  towards  the  pillory 
around  which  the  throng  was  growing  more  dense  with  every 


HISTORY  OF  A   LEAVENED   CAKE  OF  MAIZE.      239 

moment.  It  is  probable  that  the  spectacle  which  at  that 
moment  attracted  all  looks  in  that  direction,  would  have  made 
them  forget  completely  the  Rat-Hole,  and  the  halt  which 
they  intended  to  make  there,  if  big  Eustache,  six  years  of  age, 
whom  Mahiette  was  dragging  along  by  the  hand,  had  not 
abruptly  recalled  the  object  to  them :  "  Mother,"  said  he,  as 
though  some  instinct  warned  him  that  the  Eat-Hole  was 
behind  him,  "  can  I  eat  the  cake  now  ?  " 

If  Eustache  had  been  more  adroit,  that  is  to  say,  less 
greedy,  he  would  have  continued  to  wait,  and  would  only  have 
hazarded  that  simple  question,  "  Mother,  can  I  eat  the  cake, 
now  ?  "  on  their  return  to  the  University,  to  Master  Andry 
Musnier's,  Eue  Madame  la  Valence,  when  he  had  the  two 
arms  of  the  Seine  and  the  five  bridges  of  the  city  between  the 
Eat-Hole  and  the  cake. 

This  question,  highly  imprudent  at  the  moment  when 
Eustache  put  it,  aroused  Mahiette's  attention. 

"By  the  way,"  she  exclaimed,  "we  are  forgetting  the 
recluse !  Show  me  the  Eat-Hole,  that  I  may  carry  her  her 
cake." 

"  Immediately,"  said  Oudarde,  "  'tis  a  charity." 

But  this  did  not  suit  Eustache. 

"  Stop !  my  cake  ! "  said  he,  rubbing  both  ears  alternatively 
with  his  shoulders,  which,  in  such  cases,  is  the  supreme  sign 
of  discontent. 

The  three  women  retraced  their  steps,  and,  on  arriving  in 
the  vicinity  of  the  Tour-Eoland,  Oudarde  said  to  the  other 
two,  — 

"  We  must  not  all  three  gaze  into  the  hole  at  once,  for  fear 
of  alarming  the  recluse.  Do  you  two  pretend  to  read  the 
Dominus  in  the  breviary,  while  I  thrust  my  nose  into  the 
aperture;  the  recluse  knows  me  a  little.  I  will  give  you 
warning  when  you  can  approach." 

She  proceeded  alone  to  the  window.  At  the  moment  when 
she  looked  in,  a  profound  pity  was  depicted  on  all  her  feat- 
ures, and  her  frank,  gay  visage  altered  its  expression  and 
color  as  abruptly  as  though  it  had  passed  from  a  ray  of  sun- 
light to  a  ray  of  moonlight;  her  eye  became  humid;  her 


240  NOTRE-DAMK. 

mouth  contracted,  like  that  of  a  person  on  the  point  of 
weeping.  A  moment  later,  she  laid  her  finger  on  her  lips, 
and  made  a  sign  to  Mahiette  to  draw  near  and  look. 

Mahiette,  much  touched,  stepped  up  in  silence,  on  tiptoe,  as 
though  approaching  the  bedside  of  a  dying  person. 

It  was,  in  fact,  a  melancholy  spectacle  which  presented 
itself  to  the  eyes  of  the  two  women,  as  they  gazed  through 
the  grating  of  the  Rat-Hole,  neither  stirring  nor  breathing. 

The  cell  was  small,  broader  than  it  was  long,  with  an  arched 
ceiling,  and  viewed  from  within,  it  bore  a  considerable  resem- 
blance to  the  interior  of  a  huge  bishop's  mitre.  On  the  bare 
flagstones  which  formed  the  floor,  in  one  corner,  a  woman 
was  sitting,  or  rather,  crouching.  Her  chin  rested  on  her 
knees,  which  her  crossed  arms  pressed  forcibly  to  her  breast. 
Thus  doubled  up,  clad  in  a  brown  sack,  which  enveloped  her 
entirely  in  large  folds,  her  long,  gray  hair  pulled  over  in 
front,  falling  over  her  face  and  along  her  legs  nearly  to  her 
feet,  she  presented,  at  the  first  glance,  only  a  strange  form 
outlined  against  the  dark  background  of  the  cell,  a  sort  of 
dusky  triangle,  which  the  ray  of  daylight  falling  through 
the  opening,  cut  roughly  into  two  shades,  the  one  sombre,  the 
other  illuminated.  It  was  one  of  those  spectres,  half  light, 
half  shadow,  such  as  one  beholds  in  dreams  and  in  the 
extraordinary  work  of  Goya,  pale,  motionless,  sinister,  crouch- 
ing over  a  tomb,  or  leaning  against  the  grating  of  a  prison 
cell. 

It  was  neither  a  woman,  nor  a  man,  nor  a  living  being,  nor 
a  definite  form ;  it  was  a  figure,  a  sort  of  vision,  in  which  the 
real  and  the  fantastic  intersected  each  other,  like  darkness 
and  day.  It  was  with  difficulty  that  one  distinguished, 
beneath  her  hair  which  spread  to  the  ground,  a  gaunt  and 
severe  profile  ;  her  dress  barely  allowed  the  extremity  of  a 
bare  foot  to  escape,  which  contracted  on  the  hard,  cold  pave- 
ment. The  little  of  human  form  of  which  one  caught  a  sight 
beneath  this  envelope  of  mourning,  caused  a  shudder. 

That  figure,  which  one  might  have  supposed  to  be  riveted 
to  the  flagstones,  appeared  to  possess  neither  movement,  nor 
thought,  nor  breath.  Lying,  in  January,  in  that  thin,  linen 


HISTORY  OF  A   LEAVENED   CAKE  OF  MAIZE.      241 

sack,  lying  on  a  granite  floor,  without  fire,  in  the  gloom  of  a 
cell  whose  oblique  air-hole  allowed  only  the  cold  breeze,  but 
never  the  sun,  to  enter  from  without,  she  did  not  appear  to 
suffer  or  even  to  think.  One  would  have  said  that  she  had 
turned  to  stone  with  the  cell,  ice  with  the  season.  Her  hands 
were  clasped,  her  eyes  fixed.  At  first  sight  one  took  her  for 
a  spectre  ;  at  the  second,  for  a  statue. 

Nevertheless,  at  intervals,  her  blue  lips  half  opened  to 
admit  a  breath,  and  trembled,  but  as  dead  and  as  mechanical 
as  the  leaves  which  the  wind  sweeps  aside. 

Nevertheless,  from  her  dull  eyes  there  escaped  a  look,  an 
ineffable  look,  a  profound,  lugubrious,  imperturbable  look, 
incessantly  fixed  upon  a  corner  of  the  cell  which  could  not  be 
seen  from  without;  a  gaze  which  seemed  to  fix  all  the 
sombre  thoughts  of  that  soul  in  distress  upon  some  mysterious 
object. 

Such  was  the  creature  who  had  received,  from  her  habita- 
tion, the  name  of  the  "  recluse  "  ;  and,  from  her  garment,  the 
name  of  "  the  sacked  nun.'J 

The  three  women,  for  Gervaise  had  rejoined  Mahiette  and 
Oudarde,  gazed  through  the  window.  Their  heads  intercepted 
the  feeble  light  in  the  cell,  without  the  wretched  being  whom 
they  thus  deprived  of  it  seeming  to  pay  any  attention  to 
them.  "  Do  not  let  us  trouble  her,"  said  Oudarde,  in  a  low 
voice,  "  she  is  in  her  ecstasy  ;  she  is  praying." 

Meanwhile,  Mahiette  was  gazing  Avith  ever-increasing 
anxiety  at  that  wan,  withered,  dishevelled  head,  and  her  eyes 
filled  with  tears.  "  This  is  very  singular,"  she  murmured. 

She  thrust  her  head  through  the  bars,  and  succeeded  in 
casting  a  glance  at  the  corner  where  the  gaze  of  the  unhappy 
woman  was  immovably  riveted. 

When  she  withdrew  her  head  from  the  window,  her  counte- 
nance was  inundated  with  tears. 

"  What  do  you  call  that  woman  ?  "  she  asked  Oudarde. 

Oudarde  replied,  — 

"  We  call  her  Sister  Gudule." 

"  And  I,"  returned  Mahiette,  "  call  her  Paquette  la  Chante- 
fleurie." 


242  NOTRE-DANE. 

Then,  laying  her  finger  on  her  lips,  she  motioned  to  the 
astounded  Oudarde  to  thrust  her  head  through  the  window 
and  look. 

Oudarde  looked  and  beheld,  in  the  corner  where  the  eyes  of 
the  recluse  were  fixed  in  that  sombre  ecstasy,  a  tiny  shoe  of 
pink  satin,  embroidered  with  a  thousand  fanciful  designs  in 
gold  and  silver. 

Gervaise  looked  after  Oudarde,  and  then  the  three  women, 
gazing  upon  the  unhappy  mother,  began  to  weep. 

But  neither  their  looks  nor  their  tears  disturbed  the 
recluse.  Her  hands  remained  clasped;  her  lips  mute;  her 
eyes  fixed ;  and  that  little  shoe,  thus  gazed  at,  broke  the  heart 
of  any  one  who  knew  her  history. 

The  three  women  had  not  yet  uttered  a  single  word ;  they 
dared  not  speak,  even  in  a  low  voice.  This  deep  silence,  this 
deep  grief,  this  profound  oblivion  in  which  everything  had  dis- 
appeared except  one  thing,  produced  upon  them  the  effect  of 
the  grand  altar  at  Christmas  or  Easter.  They  remained  silent, 
they  meditated,  they  were  ready  to  kneel.  It  seemed  to  them 
that  they  were  ready  to  enter  a  church  on  the  day  of  Tenebrae. 

At  length  Gervaise,  the  most  curious  of  the  three,  and  con- 
sequently the  least  sensitive,  tried  to  make  the  recluse  speak : 
"  Sister !  Sister  Gudule !  " 

She  repeated  this  call  three  times,  raising  her  voice  each 
time.  The  recluse  did  not  move;  not  a  word,  not  a  glance, 
not  a  sigh,  not  a  sign  of  life. 

Oudarde,  in  her  turn,  in  a  sweeter,  more  caressing  voice,  — 
"  Sister ! "  said  she,  "  Sister  Sainte-Gudule  ! " 

The  same  silence ;  the  same  immobility. 

"  A  singular  woman ! "  exclaimed  Gervaise,  "  and  one  not  to 
be  moved  by  a  catapult ! " 

"Perchance  she  is  deaf,"  said  Oudarde. 

"  Perhaps  she  is  blind,"  added  Gervaise. 

"  Dead,  perchance,"  returned  Mahiette. 

It  is  certain  that  if  the  soul  had  not  already  quitted  this 
inert,  sluggish,  lethargic  body,  it  had  at  least  retreated  and 
concealed  itself  in  depths  whither  the  perceptions  of  the 
exterior  organs  no  longer  penetrated. 


HISTORY  OF  A    LEAVENED   CAKE  OF  MAIZE.      243 

"Then  we  must  leave  the  cake  on  the  window,"  said 
Oudarde ;  "  some  scamp  will  take  it.  What  shall  we  do  to 
rouse  her  ?  " 

Eustache,  who,  up  to  that  moment  had  been  diverted  by  a 
little  carriage  drawn  by  a  large  dog,  which  had  just  passed, 
suddenly  perceived  that  his  three  conductresses  were  gazing 
at  something  through  the  window,  and,  curiosity  taking  pos- 
session of  him  in  his  turn,  he  climbed  upon  a  stone  post, 
elevated  himself  on  tiptoe,  and  applied  his  fat,  red  face  to  the 
opening,  shouting,  "  Mother,  let  me  see  too !  " 

At  the  sound  of  this  clear,  fresh,  ringing  child's  voice,  the 
recluse  trembled ;  she  turned  her  head  with  the  sharp,  abrupt 
movement  of  a  steel  spring,  her  long,  fleshless  hands  cast 
aside  the  hair  from  her  brow,  and  she  fixed  upon  the  child, 
bitter,  astonished,  desperate  eyes.  This  glance  was  but  a 
lightning  flash. 

"  Oh  my  God ! "  she  suddenly  exclaimed,  hiding  her  head  on 
her  knees,  and  it  seemed  as  though  her  hoarse  voice  tore  her 
chest  as  it  passed  from  it,  "  do  not  show  me  those  of  others ! " 

"  Good  day,  madam,"  said  the  child,  gravely. 

Nevertheless,  this  shock  had,  so  to  speak,  awakened  the 
recluse.  A  long  shiver  traversed  her  frame  from  head  to 
foot ;  her  teeth  chattered ;  she  half  raised  her  head  and  said, 
pressing  her  elbows  against  her  hips,  and  clasping  her  feet 
in  her  hands  as  though  to  warm  them,  — 

"  Oh,  how  cold  it  is !  " 

"Poor  woman!"  said  Oudarde,  with  great  compassion, 
"  would  you  like  a  little  fire  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head  in  token  of  refusal. 

"Well,"  resumed  Oudarde,  presenting  her  with  a  flagon; 
"  here  is  some  hippo'cras  which  will  warm  you  ;  drink  it." 

Again  she  shook  her  head,  looked  at  Oudarde  fixedly  and 
'plied,  "  Water." 

Oudarde  persisted,  —  "  Xo,  sister,  that  is  no  beverage  for 
January.  You  must  drink  a  little  hippocras  and  eat  this 
leavened  cake  of  maize,  which  we  have  baked  for  you." 

She  refused  the  cake  which  Mahiette  offered  to  her,  and 
said,  "  Black  bread." 


244  NOTRE-DAME. 

"  Come,"  said  Gervaise,  seized  in  her  turn  with  an  impulse 
of  charity,  and  unfastening  her  woolen  cloak,  "  here  is  a  cloak 
which  is  a  little  warmer  than  yours." 

She  refused  the  cloak  as  she  had  refused  the  flagon  and 
the  cake,  and  replied,  "  A  sack." 

"But,"  resumed  the  good  Oudarde,  "you  must  have  per- 
ceived to  some  extent,  that  yesterday  was  a  festival-" 

"  I  do  perceive  it,"  said  the  recluse ;  "  'tis  two  days  now 
since  I  have  had  any  water  in  my  crock." 

She  added,  after  a  silence,  "  'Tis  a  festival,  I  am  forgotten. 
People  do  well.  Why  should  the  world  think  of  me,  when  I 
do  not  think  of  it  ?  Cold  charcoal  makes  cold  ashes." 

And  as  though  fatigued  with  having  said  so  much,  she 
dropped  her  head  on  her  knees  again.  The  simple  and  chari- 
table Oudarde,  who  fancied  that  she  understood  from  her  last 
words  that  she  was  complaining  of  the  cold,  replied  inno- 
cently, "Then  you  would  like  a  little  fire  ?  " 

"  Fire ! "  said  the  sacked  nun,  with  a  strange  accent ;  "  and 
will  you  also  make  a  little  for  the  poor  little  one  who  has 
been  beneath  the  sod  for  these  fifteen  years  ?  " 

Every  limb  was  trembling,  her  voice  quivered,  her  eyes 
flashed,  she  had  raised  herself  upon  her  knees ;  suddenly  she 
extended  her  thin,  white  hand  towards  the  child,  who  was 
regarding  her  with  a  look  of  astonishment.  "Take  away 
that  child ! "  she  cried.  "  The  Egyptian  woman  is  about  to 
pass  by." 

Then  she  fell  face  downward  on  the  earth,  and  her  forehead 
struck  the  stone,  with  the  sound  of  one  stone  against  another 
stone.  The  three  women  thought  her  dead.  A  moment  later, 
however,  she  moved,  and  they  beheld  her  drag  herself,  on  her 
knees  and  elbows,  to  the  corner  where  the  little  shoe  was. 
Then  they  dared  not  look ;  they  no  longer  saw  her  ;  but  they 
heard  a  thousand  kisses  and  a  thousand  sighs,  mingled  with 
heartrending  cries,  and  dull  blows  like  those  of  a  head  in  con- 
tact with  a  wall.  Then,  after  one  of  these  blows,  so  violent 
that  all  three  of  them  staggered,  they  heard  no  more. 

"  Can  she  have  killed  herself  ?  "  said  Gervaise,  venturing  to 
pass  her  head  through  the  air-hole.  "  Sister !  Sister  Gudule  ! " 


HISTORY  OF  A    LEAVENED   CAKE  OF  MAIZE.      245 

"  Sister  Gudule  !  "  repeated  Oudarde. 

"Ah!  good  heavens!  she  no  longer  moves!"  resumed 
Gervaise ;  "  is  she  dead  ?  Gudule  !  Gudule  ! " 

.Mahiette,  choked  to  such  a  point  that  she  could  not  speak, 
made  an  effort.  "  Wait,"  said  she.  Then  bending  towards 
the  window,  "Paquette!"  she  said,  "Paquette  le  Chante- 
fleurie ! " 

A  child  who  innocently  blows  upon  the  badly  ignited  fuse 
of  a  bomb,  and  makes  it  explode  in  his  face,  is  no  more  terri- 
fied than  was  Mahiette  at  the  effect  of  that  name,  abruptly 
launched  into  the  cell  of  Sister  Gudule. 

The  recluse  trembled  all  over,  rose  erect  on  her  bare  feet, 
and  leaped  at  the  window  with  eyes  so  glaring  that  Mahiette 
and  Oudarde,  and  the  other  woman  and  the  child  recoiled  even 
to  the  parapet  of  the  quay. 

Meanwhile,  the  sinister  face  of  the  recluse  appeared  pressed 
to  the  grating  of  the  air-hole.  "  Oh  !  oh  ! "  she  cried,  with 
an  appalling  laugh ;  "  'tis  the  Egyptian  who  is  calling  me ! " 

At  that  moment,  a  scene  which  was  passing  at  the  pillory 
caught  her  wild  eye.  Her  brow  contracted  with  horror,  she 
stretched  her  two  skeleton  arms  from  her  cell,  and  shrieked  in 
a  voice  which  resembled  a  death-rattle,  "So  'tis  thou  once 
more,  daughter  of  Egypt !  'Tis  thou  who  callest  me,  stealer 
of  children!  Well!  Be  thou  accursed!  accursed!  accursed! 
accursed ! " 


CHAPTER   IV. 


A    TEAR    FOR    A    DROP    OF    WATER. 

THESE  words  were,  so  to  speak,  the  point  of  union  of  two 
scenes,  which  had,  up  to  that  time,  been  developed  in  parallel 
lines  at  the  same  moment,  each  on  its  particular  theatre ;  one, 
that  which  the  reader  has  just  perused,  in  the  Rat-Hole ; 
the  other,  which  he  is  about  to  read,  on  the  ladder  of  the  pil- 
lory. The  first  had  for  witnesses  only  the  three  women 
with  whom  the  reader  has  just  made  acquaintance ;  the  second 
had  for  spectators  all  the  public  which  we  have  seen  above, 
collecting  on  the  Place  de  Greve,  around  the  pillory  and  the 
gibbet. 

That  crowd  which  the  four  sergeants  posted  at  nine  o'clock 
in  the  morning  at  the  four  corners  of  the  pillory  had  inspired 
with  the  hope  of  some  sort  of  an  execution,  no  doubt,  not  a 
hanging,  but  a  whipping,  a  cropping  of  ears,  something,  in 
short, — that  crowd  had  increased  so  rapidly  that  the  four 
policemen,  too  closely  besieged,  had  had  occasion  to  "  press  " 
it,  as  the  expression  then  ran,  more  than  once,  by  sound  blows 
of  their  whips,  and  the  haunches  of  their  horses. 

This  populace,  disciplined  to  waiting  for  public  executions, 
did  not  manifest  very  much  impatience.  It  amused  itself 
with  watching  the  pillory,  a  very  simple  sort  of  monument, 
composed  of  a  cube  of  masonry  about  six  feet  high  and  hol- 
low in  the  interior.  A  very  steep  staircase,  of  unhewn  stone, 
which  was  called  by  distinction  "the  ladder,"  led  to  the  upper 
platform,  upon  which  was  visible  a  horizontal  wheel  of  solid 

246 


A   TEAR  FOR  A  DROP   OF   WATER.  247 

oak.  The  victim  was  bound  upon  this  wheel,  on  his  knees, 
with  his  hands  behind  his  back.  A  wooden  shaft,  which  set 
in  motion  a  capstan  concealed  in  the  interior  of  the  little 
edifice,  imparted  a  rotatory  motion  to  the  wheel,  which  always 
maintained  its  horizontal  position,  and  in  this  manner  pre- 
sented the  face  of  the  condemned  man  to  all  quarters  of  the 
square  in  succession.  This  was  what  was  called  "turning" 
a  criminal. 

As  the  reader  perceives,  the  pillory  of  the  Greve  was  far 
from  presenting  all  the  recreations  of  the  pillory  of  the  Halles. 
Nothing  architectural,  nothing  monumental.  No  roof  to  the 
iron  cross,  no  octagonal  lantern,  no  frail,  slender  columns 
spreading  out  on  the  edge  of  the  roof  into  capitals  of  acanthus 
leaves  and  flowers,  no  waterspouts  of  chimeras  and  monsters, 
on  carved  woodwork,  no  fine  sculpture,  deeply  sunk  in  the  stone. 

They  were  forced  to  content  themselves  with  those  four 
stretches  of  rubble  work,  backed  with  sandstone,  and  a 
wretched  stone  gibbet,  meagre  and  bare,  on  one  side. 

The  entertainment  would  have  been  but  a  poor  one  for 
lovers  of  Gothic  architecture.  It  is  true  that  nothing  was 
ever  less  curious  on  the  score  of  architecture  than  the  worthy 
gapers  of  the  Middle  Ages,  and  that  they  cared  very  little  for 
the  beauty  of  a  pillory. 

The  victim  finally  arrived,  bound  to  the  tail  of  a  cart,  and 
when  he  had  been  hoisted  upon  the  platform,  where  he  could 
be  seen  from  all  points  of  the  Place,  bound  with  cords  and 
straps  upon  the  wheel  of  the  pillory,  a  prodigious  hoot,  min- 
gled with  laughter  and  acclamations,  burst  forth  upon  the 
Place.  They  had  recognized  Quasimodo. 

It  was  he,  in  fact.  The  change  was  singular.  Pilloried  on 
the  very  place  where,  on  the  day  before,  he  had  been  saluted, 
acclaimed,  and  proclaimed  Pope  and  Prince  of  Fools,  in  the 
cortege  of  the  Duke  of  Egypt,  the  King  of  Thunes,  and  the 
Emperor  of  Galilee  !  One  thing  is  certain,  and  that  is,  that 
there  was  not  a  soul  in  the  crowd,  not  even  himself,  though 
in  turn  triumphant  and  the  sufferer,  who  set  forth  this  combi- 
nation clearly  in  his  thought.  Gringoire  and  his  philosophy 
were  missing  at  this  spectacle. 


248  NOTRE-DAME. 

Soon  Michel  Noiret,  sworn  trumpeter  to  the  king,  our  lord, 
imposed  silence  on  the  louts,  and  proclaimed  the  sentence,  in 
accordance  with  the  order  and  command  of  monsieur  the  pro- 
vost. Then  he  withdrew  behind  the  cart,  with  his  men  in 
livery  surcoats. 

Quasimodo,  impassible,  did  not  wince.  All  resistance  had 
been  rendered  impossible  to  him  by  what  was  then  called,  in 
the  style  of  the  criminal  chancellery,  "  the  vehemence  and  firm- 
ness of  the  bonds "  which  means  that  the  thongs  and  chains 
probably  cut  into  his  flesh;  moreover,  it  is  a  tradition  of  jail 
and  wardens,  which  has  not  been  lost,  and  which  the  handcuffs 
still  preciously  preserve  among  us,  a  civilized,  gentle,  humane 
people  (the  galleys  and  the  guillotine  in  parentheses). 

He  had  allowed  himself  to  be  led,  pushed,  carried,  lifted, 
bound,  and  bound  again.  Nothing  was  to  be  seen  upon  his 
countenance  but  the  astonishment  of  a  savage  or  an  idiot. 
He  was  known  to  be  deaf;  one  might  have  pronounced  him 
to  be  blind. 

They  placed  him  on  his  knees  on  the  circular  plank ;  he 
made  no  resistance.  They  removed  his  shirt  and  doublet  as 
far  as  his  girdle ;  he  allowed  them  to  have  their  way.  They 
entangled  him  under  a  fresh  system  of  thongs  and  buckles ; 
he  allowed  them  to  bind  and  buckle  him.  Only  from  time  to 
time  he  snorted  noisily,  like  a  calf  whose  head  is  hanging  and 
bumping  over  the  edge  of  a  butcher's  cart. 

"  The  dolt,"  said  Jehan  Frollo  of  the  Mill,  to  his  friend 
Robin  Poussepain  (for  the  two  students  had  followed  the 
culprit,  as  was  to  have  been  expected),  "he  understands  no 
more  than  a  cockchafer  shut  up  in  a  box !  " 

There  was  wild  laughter  among  the  crowd  when  they  beheld 
Quasimodo's  hump,  his  camel's  breast,  his  callous  and  hairy 
shoulders  laid  bare.  During  this  gayety,  a  man  in  the  livery 
of  the  city,  short  of  stature  and  robust  of  mien,  mounted  the 
platform  and  placed  himself  near  the  victim.  His  name 
speedily  circulated  among  the  spectators.  It  was  Master 
Pierrat  Torterue,  official  torturer  to  the  Chatelet. 

He  began  by  depositing  on  an  angle  of  the  pillory  a  black 
hour-glass,  the  upper  lobe  of  which  was  filled  with  red  sand. 


A   TEAS  FOR  A  DROP   OF  WATER.  249 

which  it  allowed  to  glide  into  the  lower  receptacle ;  then  he 
removed  his  parti-colored  surtout,  and  there  became  visible, 
suspended  from  his  right  hand,  a  thin  and  tapering  whip  of 
long,  white,  shining,  knotted,  plaited  thongs,  armed  with 
metal  nails.  With  his  left  hand,  he  negligently  folded  back 
his  shirt  around  his  right  arm,  to  the  very  armpit. 

In  the  meantime,  Jehan  Frollo,  elevating  his  curly  blonde 
head  above  the  crowd  (he  had  mounted  upon  the  shoulders  of 
Robin  Poussepain  for  the  purpose),  shouted :  "  Come  and 
look,  gentle  ladies  and  men !  they  are  going  to  peremptorily 
flagellate  Master  Quasimodo,  the  bellringer  of  my  brother, 
monsieur  the  archdeacon  of  Josas,  a  knave  of  oriental  archi- 
tecture, who  has  a  back  like  a  dome,  and  legs  like  twisted 
columns  ! " 

And  the  crowd  burst  into  a  laugh,  especially  the  boys  and 
young  girls. 

At  length  the  torturer  stamped  his  foot.  The  wheel  began 
to  turn.  Quasimodo  wavered  beneath  his  bonds.  The  amaze- 
ment which  was  suddenly  depicted  upon  his  deformed  face 
caused  the  bursts  of  laughter  to  redouble  around  him. 

All  at  once,  at  the  moment  when  the  wheel  in  its  revolution 
presented  to  Master  Pierrat,  the  humped  back  of  Quasimodo, 
Master  Pierrat  raised  his  arm ;  the  fine  thongs  whistled 
sharply  through  the  air,  like  a  handful  of  adders,  and  fell 
with  fury  upon  the  wretch's  shoulders. 

Quasimodo  leaped  as  though  awakened  with  a  start.  He 
began  to  understand.  He  writhed  in  his  bonds;  a  violent 
contraction  of  surprise  and  pain  distorted  the  muscles  of  his 
face,  but  he  uttered  not  a  single  sigh.  He  merely  turned  his 
head  backward,  to  the  right,  then  to  the  left,  balancing  it  as  a 
bull  does  who  has  been  stung  in  the  flanks  by  a  gadfly. 

A  second  blow  followed  the  first,  then  a  third,  and  another 
and  another,  and  still  others.  The  wheel  did  not  cease  to 
turn,  nor  the  blows  to  rain  down. 

Soon  the  blood  burst  forth,  and  could  be  seen  trickling  in  a 
thousand  threads  down  the  hunchback's  black  shoulders  ;  and 
the  slender  thongs,  in  their  rotatory  motion  which  rent  the 
air,  sprinkled  drops  of  it  upon  the  crowd. 


250  NOTRE-DAME. 

Quasimodo  had  resumed,  to  all  appearance,  his  first  impertur- 
bability. He  had  at  first  tried,  in  a  quiet  way  and  without  much 
outward  movement,  to  break  his  bonds.  His  eye  had  been 
seen  to  light  up,  his  muscles  to  stiffen,  his  members  to  concen- 
trate their  force,  and  the  straps  to  stretch.  The  effort  was 
powerful,  prodigious,  desperate;  but  the  provost's  seasoned 
bonds  resisted.  They  cracked,  and  that  was  all.  Quasimodo 
fell  back  exhausted.  Amazement  gave  way,  on  his  features, 
to  a  sentiment  of  profound  and  bitter  discouragement.  He 
closed  his  single  eye,  allowed  his  head  to  droop  upon  his 
breast,  and  feigned  death. 

From  that  moment  forth,  he  stirred  no  more.  Nothing 
could  force  a  movement  from  him.  Neither  his  blood,  which 
did  not  cease  to  flow,  nor  the  blows  which  redoubled  in  fury, 
nor  the  wrath  of  the  torturer,  who  grew  excited  himself  and 
intoxicated  with  the  execution,  nor  the  sound  of  the  horrible 
thongs,  more  sharp  and  whistling  than  the  claws  of  scorpions. 

At  length  a  bailiff  from  the  Chatelet  clad  in  black,  mounted 
on  a  black  horse,  who  had  been  stationed  beside  the  ladder 
since  the  beginning  of  the  execution,  extended  his  ebony  wand 
towards  the  hour-glass.  The  torturer  stopped.  The  wheel 
stopped.  Quasimodo's  eye  opened  slowly. 

The  scourging  was  finished.  Two  lackeys  of  the  official 
torturer  bathed  the  bleeding  shoulders  of  the  patient,  anointed 
them  with  some  unguent  which  immediately  closed  all  the 
wounds,  and  threw  upon  his  back  a  sort  of  yellow  vestment, 
in  cut  like  a  chasuble.  In  the  meanwhile,  Pierrat  Torterue 
allowed  the  thongs,  red  and  gorged  with  blood,  to  drip  upon 
the  pavement. 

All  was  not  over  for  Quasimodo.  He  had  still  to  undergo 
that  hour  of  pillory  which  Master  Florian  Barbedienne  had  so 
judiciously  added  to  the  sentence  of  Messire  Kobert  d'Estoute- 
ville ;  all  to  the  greater  glory  of  the  old  physiological  and 
psychological  play  upon  words  of  Jean  de  Cumene,  Surd  us 
absurdus :  a  deaf  man  is  absurd. 

So  the  hour-glass  was  turned  over  once  more,  and  they  left 
the  hunchback  fastened  to  the  plank,  in  order  that  justice 
might  be  accomplished  to  the  very  end. 


A    TEAR   FOR  A  DROP   OF   WATER.  251 

The  populace,  especially  in  the  Middle  Ages,  is  in  society 
what  the  child  is  in  the  family.  As  long  as  it  remains  in  its 
state  of  primitive  ignorance,  of  moral  and  intellectual  minor- 
ity, it  can  be  said  of  it  as  of  the  child,  — 

"Tis  the  pitiless  age. 

We  have  already  shown  that  Quasimodo  was  generally 
hated,  for  more  than  one  good  reason,  it  is  true.  There  was 
hardly  a  spectator  in  that  crowd  who  had  not  or  who  did  not 
believe  that  he  had  reason  to  complain  of  the  malevolent 
hunchback  of  Notre-Dame.  The  joy  at  seeing  him  appear 
thus  in  the  pillory  had  been  universal ;  and  the  harsh  punish- 
ment which  he  had  just  suffered,  and  the  pitiful  condition  in 
which  it  had  left  him,  far  from  softening  the  populace  had 
rendered  its  hatred  more  malicious  by  arming  it  with  a  touch 
of  mirth. 

Hence,  the  "public  prosecution"  satisfied,  as  the  bigwigs 
of  the  law  still  express  it  in  their  jargon,  the  turn  came  of  a 
thousand  private  vengeances.  Here,  as  in  the  Grand  Hall,  the 
women  rendered  themselves  particularly  prominent.  All 
cherished  some  rancor  against  him,  some  for  his  malice,  others 
for  his  ugliness.  The  latter  were  the  most  furious. 

"  Oh !  mask  of  Antichrist !  "  said  one. 

" Eider  on  a  broom  handle  ! "  cried  another 

"  What  a  fine  tragic  grimace,"  howled  a  third,  "  and  who 
would  make  him  Pope  of  the  Fools  if  to-day  were  yesterday  ?  " 

"  'Tis  well,"  struck  in  an  old  woman.  "  This  is  the  grimace 
of  the  pillory.  When  shall  we  have  that  of  the  gibbet  ?  " 

"  When  will  you  be  coiffed  with  your  big  bell  a  hundred  feet 
under  ground,  cursed  bellringer  ?  " 

"  But  'tis  the  devil  who  rings  the  Angelus ! " 

"  Oh  !  the  deaf  man  !  the  one-eyed  creature  !  the  hunch- 
back !  the  monster  !  " 

"A  face  to  make  a  woman  miscarry  better  than  all  the 
drugs  and  medicines  ! " 

And  the  two  scholars,  Jehan  du  Moulin,  and  Eobin  Pousse- 
pain,  sang  at  the  top  of  their  lungs,  the  ancient  refrain,  — 


252  NOTRE-DAME. 

"  Une  hart 
Pour  le  pendard! 
Un  fagot 
Pour  le  raagot!"  * 

A  thousand  other  insults  rained  down  upon  him,  and  hoots 
and  imprecations,  and  laughter,  and  now  and  then,  stones. 

Quasimodo  was  deaf  but  his  sight  was  clear,  and  the  public 
fury  was  no  less  energetically  depicted  on  their  visages  than 
in  their  words.  Moreover,  the  blows  from  the  stones  ex- 
plained the  bursts  of  laughter. 

At  first  he  held  his  ground.  But  little  by  little  that  pa- 
tience which  had  borne  up  under  the  lash  of  the  torturer, 
yielded  and  gave  way  before  all  these  stings  of  insects.  The 
bull  of  the  Asturias  who  has  been  but  little  moved  by  the 
attacks  of  the  picador  grows  irritated  with  the  dogs  and 
banderilleras. 

He  first  cast  around  a  slow  glance  of  hatred  upon  the  crowd. 
But  bound  as  he  was,  his  glance  was  powerless  to  drive  away 
those  flies  which  were  stinging  his  wound.  Then  he  moved  in 
his  bonds,  and  his  furious  exertions  made  the  ancient  wheel  of 
the  pillory  shriek  on  its  axle.  All  this  only  increased  the 
derision  and  hooting. 

Then  the  wretched  man,  unable  to  break  his  collar,  like  that 
of  a  chained  wild  beast,  became  tranquil  once  more  ;  only  at 
intervals  a  sigh  of  rage  heaved  the  hollows  of  his  chest. 
There  was  neither  shame  nor  redness  on  his  face.  He  was 
too  far  from  the  state  of  society,  and  too  near  the  state  cf 
nature  to  know  what  shame  was.  Moreover,  with  such  a  de- 
gree of  deformity,  is  infamy  a  thing  that  can  be  felt  ?  But 
wrath,  hatred,  despair,  slowly  lowered  over  that  hideous  visage 
a  cloud  which  grew  ever  more  and  more  sombre,  ever  more  and 
more  charged  with  electricity,  which  burst  forth  in  a  thousand 
lightning  flashes  from  the  eye  of  the  cyclops. 

Nevertheless,  that  cloud  cleared  away  for  a  moment,  at  the 
passage  of  a  mule  which  traversed  the  crowd,  bearing  a  priest. 
As  far  away  as  he  could  see  that  mule  and  that  priest,  the  poor 
rictim's  visage  grew  gentler.  The  fury  which  had  contracted 

*  A  rope  for  the  gallows  bird  !     A  fagot  for  the  ape. 


A    TEAR   FOR  A   DROP   OF   WATER.  253 

it  was  followed  by  a  strange  smile  full  of  ineffable  sweetness, 
gentleness,  and  tenderness.  In  proportion  as  the  priest  ap- 
proached, that  smile  became  more  clear,  more  distinct,  more 
radiant.  It  was  like  the  arrival  of  a  Saviour,  which  the  un- 
happy man  was  greeting.  But  as  soon  as  the  mule  was  near 
enough  to  the  pillory  to  allow  of  its  rider  recognizing  the  vic- 
tim, the  priest  dropped  his  eyes,  beat  a  hasty  retreat,  spurred 
on  rigorously,  as  though  in  haste  to  rid  himself  of  humiliating 
appeals,  and  not  at  all  desirous  of  being  saluted  and  recog- 
nized by  a  poor  fellow  in  such  a  predicament. 

This  priest  was  Archdeacon  Dom  Claude  Frollo. 

The  cloud  descended  more  blackly  than  ever  upon  Quasi- 
modo's brow.  The  smile  was  still  mingled  with  it  for  a  time, 
but  was  bitter,  discouraged,  profoundly  sad. 

Time  passed  on.  He  had  been  there  at  least  an  hour  and  a 
half,  lacerated,  maltreated,  mocked  incessantly,  and  almost 
stoned. 

All  at  once  he  moved  again  in  his  chains  with  redoubled 
despair,  which  made  the  whole  framework  that  bore  him  trem- 
ble, and,  breaking  the  silence  which  he  had  obstinately  pre- 
served hitherto,  he  cried  in  a  hoarse  and  furious  voice,  which 
resembled  a  bark  rather  than  a  human  cry,  and  which  was 
drowned  in  the  noise  of  the  hoots  :  —  "  Drink  !  " 

This  exclamation  of  distress,  far  from  exciting  compassion, 
only  added  amusement  to  the  good  Parisian  populace  who  sur- 
rounded the  ladder,  and  who,  it  must  be  confessed,  taken  in 
the  mass  and  as  a  multitude,  was  then  no  less  cruel  and  brutal 
than  that  horrible  tribe  of  robbers  among  whom  we  have  al- 
ready conducted  the  reader,  and  which  was  simply  the  lower 
stratum  of  the  populace.  Not  a  voice  was  raised  around  the 
unhappy  victim,  except  to  jeer  at  his  thirst.  It  is  certain 
that  at  that  moment  he  was  more  grotesque  and  repulsive 
than  pitiable,  with  his  face  purple  and  dripping,  his  eye  wild, 
his  mouth  foaming  with  rage  and  pain,  and  his  tongue  lolling 
half  out.  It  must  also  be  stated  that  if  a  charitable  soul  of  a 
bourgeois  or  lourgeoise,  in  the  rabble,  had  attempted  to  carry 
a  glass  of  water  to  that  wretched  creature  in  torment,  there 
reigned  around  the  infamous  steps  of  the  pillory  such  a  preju- 


254  NOTEE-DAME. 

dice  of  shame  and  ignominy,  that  it  would  have  sufficed  to  re- 
pulse the  good  Samaritan. 

At  the  expiration  of  a  few  moments,  Quasimodo  cast  a  des- 
perate glance  upon  the  crowd,  and  repeated  in  a  voice  still 
more  heartrending  :  —  "  Drink  !  " 

And  all  began  to  laugh. 

"  Drink  this  ! "  cried  Robin  Poussepain,  throwing  in  his 
face  a  sponge  which  had  been  soaked  in  the  gutter.  "  There, 
you  deaf  villain,  I'm  your  debtor." 

A  woman  hurled  a  stone  at  his  head,  — 

"  That  will  teach  you  to  wake  us  up  at  night  with  your  peal 
of  a  dammed  soul." 

"He,  good,  my  son  !  "  howled  a  cripple,  making  an  effort  to 
reach  him  with  his  crutch,  "  will  you  cast  any  more  spells  on 
us  from  the  top  of  the  towers  of  Notre-Dame  ?  " 

"  Here's  a  drinking  cup ! "  chimed  in  a  man,  flinging  a 
broken  jug  at  his  breast.  "  'Twas  you  that  made  my  wife, 
simply  because  she  passed  near  you,  give  birth  to  a  child  with 
two  heads ! " 

"And  my  cat  bring  forth  a  kitten  with  six  paws  !  "  yelped 
an  old  crone,  launching  a  brick  at  him. 

"Drink!"  repeated  Quasimodo  panting,  and  for  the  third 
time. 

At  that  moment  he  beheld  the  crowd  give  way.  A  young 
girl,  fantastically  dressed,  emerged  from  the  throng.  She 
was  accompanied  by  a  little  white  goat  with  gilded  horns,  and 
carried  a  tambourine  in  her  hand. 

Quasimodo's  eyes  sparkled.  It  was  the  gypsy  whom  he  had 
attempted  to  carry  off  on  the  preceding  night,  a  misdeed  for 
which  he  was  dimly  conscious  that  he  was  being  punished  at 
that  very  moment ;  which  was  not  in  the  least  the  case,  since 
he  was  being  chastised  only  for  the  misfortune  of  being  deaf, 
and  of  having  been  judged  by  a  deaf  man.  He  doubted  not 
that  she  had  come  to  wreak  her  vengeance  also,  and  to  deal 
her  blow  like  the  rest. 

He  beheld  her,  in  fact,  mount  the  ladder  rapidly.  Wrath 
and  spite  suffocate  him.  He  would  have  liked  to  make  the 
pillory  crumble  into  ruins,  and  if  the  lightning  of  his  eye 


A   TEAR  FOR  A   DROP   OF  WATER.  £55 

could  have  dealt  death,  the  gypsy  would  have  been  reduced 
to  powder  before  she  reached  the  platform. 

She  approached,  without  uttering  a  syllable,  the  victim 
who  writhed  in  a  vain  effort  to  escape  her,  and  detaching  a 
gourd  from  her  girdle,  she  raised  it  gently  to  the  parched  lips 
of  the  miserable  man. 

Then,  from  that  eye  which  had  been,  up  to  that  moment,  so 
dry  and  burning,  a  big  tear  was  seen  to  fall,  and  roll  slowly 
down  that  deformed  visage  so  long  contracted  with  despair. 
It  was  the  first,  in  all  probability,  that  the  unfortunate  man 
had  ever  shed. 

Meanwhile,  he  had  forgotten  to  drink.  The  gypsy  made 
her  little  pout,  from  impatience,  and  pressed  the  spout  to  the 
tusked  mouth  of  Quasimodo,  with  a  smile. 

He  drank  with  deep  draughts.     His  thirst  was  burning. 

When  he  had  finished,  the  wretch  protruded  his  black  lips, 
no  doubt,  with  the  object  of  kissing  the  beautiful  hand  which 
had  just  succoured  him.  But  the  young  girl,  who  was,  perhaps, 
somewhat  distrustful,  and  who  remembered  the  violent  attempt 
of  the  night,  withdrew  her  hand  with  the  frightened  gesture 
of  a  child  who  is  afraid  of  being  bitten  by  a  beast. 

Then  the  poor  deaf  man  fixed  on  her  a  look  full  of  reproach 
and  inexpressible  sadness. 

It  would  have  been  a  touching  spectacle  anywhere,  —  this 
beautiful,  fresh,  pure,  and  charming  girl,  who  was  at  the 
same  time  so  weak,  thus  hastening  to  the  relief  of  so  much 
misery,  deformity,  and  malevolence,  On  the  pillory,  the  spec- 
tacle was  sublime. 

The  very  populace  were  captivated  by  it,  and  began  to  clap 
their  hands,  crying,  — 
.  "Noel!  Noel!" 

It  was  at  that  moment  that  the  recluse  caught  sight,  from 
the  window  of  her  hole,  of  the  gypsy  on  the  pillory,  and 
hurled  at  her  her  sinister  imprecation,  — 

"Accursed  be  thou,  daughter  of  Egypt!  Accursed! 
accursed ! " 


CHAPTEE  V. 


END  OF  THE  STORY  OF  THE  CAKE. 

LA  ESMERALDA  turned  pale  and  descended  from  the  pillory, 
staggering  as  she  went.  The  voice  of  the  recluse  still  pursued 
her, — 

"  Descend  !  descend  1  Thief  of  Egypt !  thou  shalt  ascend  it 
once  more ! " 

"  The  sacked  nun  is  in  one  of  her  tantrums,"  muttered  the 
populace ;  and  that  was  the  end  of  it.  For  that  sort  of  woman 
was  feared ;  which  rendered  them  sacred.  People  did  not  then 
willingly  attack  one  who  prayed  day  and  night. 

The  hour  had  arrived  for  removing  Quasimodo.  He  was 
unbound,  the  crowd  dispersed. 

Near  the  Grand  Pont,  Mahiette,  who  was  returning  with  her 
two  companions,  suddenly  halted,  — 

"  By  the  way,  Eustache !  what  did  you  do  with  that  cake  ?  " 

"  Mother,"  said  the  child,  "  while  you  were  talking  with 
that  lady  in  the  hole,  a  big  dog  took  a  bite  of  my  cake,  and 
then  I  bit  it  also." 

"  What,  sir,  did  you  eat  the  whole  of  it  ?  "  she  went  on. 

"  Mother,  it  was  the  dog.  I  told  him,  but  he  would  not 
listen  to  me.  Then  I  bit  into  it,  also." 

"  'Tis  a  terrible  child ! "  said  the  mother,  smiling  and  scold- 

256 


END    OF  THE  STORY  OF  THE  CAKE. 


257 


ing  at  one  and  the  same  time.  "  Do  you  see,  Oudarde  ?  He 
already  eats  all  the  fruit  from  the  cherry-tree  in  our  orchard 
of  Charlerange.  So  his  grandfather  says  that  he  will  be  a 
captain.  Just  let  me  catch  you  at  it  again,  Master  Eustache. 
Come  along,  you  greedy  fellow  I " 


NOTRE -DAME  DE  PARIS 


VICTOR  HUGO 


TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  FRENCH 


ISABEL   F.   HAPGOOD 


VOL.  II 


NEW  YORK 
THOMAS   Y.   CROWELL   &   CO. 


COPYRIGHT,  1888,  BY 
T.   Y.  CBOWELL   &  Co. 


ELECTROTYPED  BY 
C.  J.  PETERS  &  SON,  BOSTON. 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS. 


VOLUME  II. 

BOOK  SEVENTH. 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.     The  Danger  of  Confiding  One's  Secret  to  a  Goat     ....  1 

II.     A  Priest  and  a  Philosopher  are  two  Different  Things  ...  17 

III.  The  Bells 27 

IV.  'Avfcjuri 30 

V.     The  Two  Men  Clothed  in  Black 45 

VI.     The  Effect  which  Seven  Oaths  in  the  Open  Air  can  Produce,  52 

VII.     The  Mysterious  Monk 57 

VIII.     The  Utility  of  Windows  which  Open  on  the  River  ....  66 

BOOK  EIGHTH. 

I.     The  Crown  Changed  into  a  Dry  Leaf 75 

II.     Continuation  of  the  Crown  which  was  Changed  into  a  Dry 

Leaf 86 

III.  End  of  the  Crown  which  was  Changed  into  a  Dry  Leaf  .     .  92 

IV.  Lasciate  Ogni  Speranza  — Leave  all  Hope  behind,  ye  who 

Enter  here ®® 

V.     The  Mother m 

VI.     Three  Human  Hearts  differently  Constructed 116 

Ui 


iv  CONTENTS. 

BOOK  NINTH. 

I.    Delirium 135 

II.     Hunchbacked,  One  Eyed,  Lame 148 

III.  Deaf 153 

IV.  Earthenware  and  Crystal 157 

V.    The  Key  to  the  Red  Door 169 

VI.    Continuation  of  the  Key  to  the  Red  Door 172 

BOOK  TENTH. 
I.    Gringoire  has  Many  Good  Ideas  in  Succession.  —  Rue  des  Ber- 

nardins 177 

II.     Turn  Vagabond 189 

III.  Long  Live  Mirth 192 

IV.  An  Awkward  Friend 201 

V.     The  Retreat  in  which  Monsieur  Louis  of  France  says  his 

Prayers 222 

VI.     Little  Sword  in  Pocket 255 

VII.     Chateaupers  to  the  Rescue 257 

BOOK  ELEVENTH. 

I.     The  Little  Shoe 261 

II.     The  Beautiful  Creature  Clad  in  White 296 

III.  The  Marriage  of  Phosbus 306 

IV.  The  Marriage  of  Quasimodo 308 

Note  added  to  Definitive  Edition                                          ,    .  311 


BOOK  SEVENTH. 


CHAPTER   I. 

THE    DANGER   OF    CONFIDING    ONE'S    SECRET    TO    A    GOAT. 

MANY  weeks  had  elapsed. 

The  first  of  March  had  arrived.  The  sun,  which  Dubar- 
tas,  that  classic  ancestor  of  periphrase,  had  not  yet  dubbed 
the  "  Grand-duke  of  Candles,"  was  none  the  less  radiant  and 
joyous  on  that  account.  It  was  one  of  those  spring  days 
which  possess  so  much  sweetness  and  beauty,  that  all  Paris 
turns  out  into  the  squares  and  promenades  and  celebrates 
them  as  though  they  were  Sundays.  In  those  days  of  bril- 
liancy, warmth,  and  serenity,  there  is  a  certain  hour  above  all 
others,  when  the  facade  of  Notre-Dame  should  be  admired. 
It  is  the  moment  when  the  sun,  already  declining  towards  the 
west,  looks  the  cathedral  almost  full  in  the  face.  Its  rays, 
growing  more  and  more  horizontal,  withdraw  slowly  from  the 
pavement  of  the  square,  and  mount  up  the  perpendicular 
facade,  whose  thousand  bosses  in  high  relief  they  cause  to 
start  out  from  the  shadows,  while  the  great  central  rose 
window  flames  like  the  eye  of  a  cyclops,  inflamed  with  the 
reflections  of  the  forge. 

This  was  the  hour. 

Opposite  the  lofty  cathedral,  reddened  by  the  setting  sun, 
on  the  stone  balcony  built  above  the  porch  of  a  rich  Gothic 

1 


2  NOTRE-DAME. 

house,  which  formed  the  angle  of  the  square  and  the  Rue  du 
Parvis,  several  young  girls  were  laughing  and  chatting  with 
every  sort  of  grace  and  mirth.  From  the  length  of  the  veil 
which  fell  from  their  pointed  coif,  twined  with  pearls,  to  their 
heels,  from  the  fineness  of  the  embroidered  chemisette  which 
covered  their  shoulders  and  allowed  a  glimpse,  according  to 
the  pleasing  custom  of  the  time,  of  the  swell  of  their  fail 
virgin  bosoms,  from  the  opulence  of  their  under-petticoats 
still  more  precious  than  their  overdress  (marvellous  refine- 
ment), from  the  gauze,  the  silk,  the  velvet,  with  which  all 
this  was  composed,  and,  above  all,  from  the  whiteness  of  their 
hands,  which  certified  to  their  leisure  and  idleness,  it  was 
easy  to  divine  they  were  noble  and  wealthy  heiresses.  They 
were,  in  fact,  Damoiselle  Fleur-de-Lys  de  Gondelaurier  and 
her  companions,  Diane  de  Christeuil,  Amelotte  de  Montmichel, 
Colombe  de  Gaillefontaine,  and  the  little  de  Champchevrier 
maiden  ;  all  damsels  of  good  birth,  assembled  at  that  moment 
at  the  house  of  the  dame  widow  de  Gondelaurier,  on  account 
of  Monseigneur  de  Beaujeu  and  Madame  his  wife,  who  Avere 
to  come  to  Paris  in  the  month  of  April,  there  to  choose  maids 
of  honor  for  the  Dauphiness  Marguerite,  who  was  to  be  re- 
ceived in  Picardy  from  the  hands  of  the  Flemings.  Xow, 
all  the  squires  for  twenty  leagues  around  were  intriguing  for 
this  favor  for  their  daughters,  and  a  goodly  number  of  the 
latter  had  been  already  brought  or  sent  to  Paris.  These  four 
maidens  had  been  confided  to  the  discreet  and  venerable 
charge  of  Madame  Alo'ise  de  Gondelaurier,  widow  of  a  former 
commander  of  the  king's  cross-bowmen,  who  had  retired  with 
her  only  daughter  to  her  house  in  the  Place  du  Parvis,  Notre- 
Dame,  in  Paris. 

The  balcony  on  which  these  young  girls  stood  opened  from 
a  chamber  richly  tapestried  in  fawn-colored  Flanders  leather, 
stamped  with  golden  foliage.  The  beams,  which  cut  the  ceil- 
ing in  parallel  lines,  diverted  the  eye  with  a  thousand  eccen- 
tric painted  and  gilded  carvings.  Splendid  enamels  gleamed 
here  and  there  on  carved  chests ;  a  boar's  head  in  fa'ience 
crowned  a  magnificent  dresser,  whose  two  shelves  announced 
that  the  mistress  of  the  house  was  the  wife  or  widow  of  a 


CONFIDING   ONE'S  SECRET  TO  A   GOAT.  3 

knight  banneret.  At  the  end  of  the  room,  by  the  side  of  a 
lofty  chimney  blazoned  with  arms  from  top  to  bottom,  in 
a  rich  red  velvet  arm-chair,  sat  Dame  de  Gondelaurier,  whose 
five  and  fifty  years  were  written  upon  her  garments  no  less 
distinctly  than  upon  her  face. 

Beside  her  stood  a  young  man  of  imposing  mien,  although 
partaking  somewhat  of  vanity  and  bravado — one  of  those  hand- 
some fellows  whom  all  women  agree  to  admire,  although  grave 
men  learned  in  physiognomy  shrug  their  shoulders  at  them. 
This  young  man  wore  the  garb  of  a  captain  of  the  "king's 
unattached  archers,  which  bears  far  too  much  resemblance  to 
the  costume  of  Jupiter,  which  the  reader  has  already  been 
enabled  to  admire  in  the  first  book  of  this  history,  for  us  to 
inflict  upon  him  a  second  description. 

The  damoiselles  were  seated,  a  part  in  the  chamber,  a  part 
in  the  balcony,  some  on  square  cushions  of  Utrecht  velvet 
with  golden  corners,  others  on  stools  of  oak  carved  in  flowers 
and  figures.  Each  of  them  held  on  her  knee  a  section  of  a 
great  needlework  tapestry,  on  which  they  were  working  in 
company,  while  one  end  of  it  lay  upon  the  rush  mat  which 
covered  the  floor. 

They  were  chatting  together  in  that  whispering  tone  and 
with  the  half-stifled  laughs  peculiar  to  an  assembly  of  young 
girls  in  whose  midst  there  is  a  young  man.  The  young  man 
whose  presence  served  to  set  in  play  all  these  feminine  self- 
conceits,  appeared  to  pay  very  little  heed  to  the  matter,  and, 
while  these  pretty  damsels  were  vying  with  one  another  to 
attract  his  attention,  he  seemed  to  be  chiefly  absorbed  in  pol- 
ishing the  buckle  of  his  sword  belt  with  his  doeskin  glove. 

From  time  to  time,  the  old  lady  addressed  him  in  a  very 
low  tone,  and  he  replied  as  well  as  he  was  able,  with  a  sort  of 
awkward  and  constrained  politeness. 

From  the  smiles  and  significant  gestures  of  Dame  Aloise, 
from  the  glances  which  she  threw  towards  her  daughter, 
Fleur-de-Lys,  as  she  spoke  low  to  the  captain,  it  was  easy  to 
see  that  there  was  here  a  question  of  some  betrothal  con- 
cluded, some  marriage  near  at  hand  no  doubt,  between  the 
young  man  and  Fleur-de-Lys.  From  the  embarrassed  coldness 


4  NOTEE-DANE. 

of  the  officer,  it  was  easy  to  see  that  on  his  side,  at  least,  love 
had  no  longer  any  part  in  the  matter.  His  whole  air  was 
expressive  of  constraint  and  weariness,  which  our  lieutenants 
of  the  garrison  would  to-day  translate  admirably  as,  "  What  a 
beastly  bore ! " 

The  poor  dame,  very  much  infatuated  with  her  daughter, 
like  any  other  silly  mother,  did  not  perceive  the  officer's  lack 
of  enthusiasm,  and  strove  in  low  tones  to  call  his  attention 
to  the  infinite  grace  with  which  Fleur-de-Lys  used  her  needle 
or  wound  her  skein. 

"  Come,  little  cousin,"  she  said  to  him,  plucking  him  by  the 
sleeve,  in  order  to  speak  in  his  ear,  "Look  at  her,  do  !  see  her 
stoop." 

"  Yes,  truly,"  replied  the  young  man,  and  fell  back  into  his 
glacial  and  absent-minded  silence. 

A  moment  later,  he  was  obliged  to  bend  down  again,  and 
Dame  Alo'ise  said  to  him,  — 

"  Have  you  ever  beheld  a  more  gay  and  charming  face  than 
that  of  your  betrothed  ?  Can  one  be  more  white  and  blonde  ? 
are  not  her  hands  perfect  ?  and  that  neck  —  does  it  not 
assume  all  the  curves  of  the  swan  in  ravishing  fashion?  How 
I  envy  you  at  times !  and  how  happy  you  are  to  be  a  man, 
naughty  libertine  that  you  are !  Is  not  my  Fleur-de-Lys 
adorably  beautiful,  and  are  you  not  desperately  in  love  with 
her-?" 

"  Of  course,"  he  replied,  still  thinking  of  something  else. 

"But  do  say  something,"  said  Madame  Alo'ise,  suddenly 
giving  his  shoulder  a  push ;  "  you  have  grown  very  timid." 

We  can  assure  our  readers  that  timidity  was  neither  the 
captain's  virtue  nor  his  defect.  But  he  made  an  effort  to  do 
what  was  demanded  of  him. 

"  Fair  cousin,"  he  said,  approaching  Fleur-de-Lys,  "  what  is 
the  subject  of  this  tapestry  work  which  you  are  fashioning  ? ' 

"  Fair  cousin,"  responded  Fleur-de-Lys,  in  an  offended  tone, 
"  I  have  already  told  you  three  times.  'Tis  the  grotto  of  Nep- 
tune." 

It  was  evident  that  Fleur-de-Lys  saw  much  more  clearly 
than  her  mother  through  the  captain's  cold  and  absent-minded 


CONFIDING   ONE'S  SECRET  TO   A    GOAT.  5 

manner.  He  felt  the  necessity  of  making  some  conver- 
sation. 

"  And  for  whom  is  this  Neptunerie  destined  ?  " 

"  For  the  Abbey  of  Saint- Antoine  des  Champs,"  answered 
Fleur-de-Lys,  without  raising  her  eyes. 

The  captain  took  up  a  corner  of  the  tapestry. 

"  Who,  my  fair  cousin,  is  this  big  gendarme,  who  is  puffing 
out  his  cheeks  to  their  full  extent  and  blowing  a  trumpet  ?  " 

"  'Tis  Triton,"  she  replied. 

There  was  a  rather  pettish  intonation  in  Fleur-de-Lys's 
laconic  words.  The  young  man  understood  that  it  was  indis- 
pensable that  he  should  whisper  something  in  her  ear,  a  com- 
monplace, a  gallant  compliment,  no  matter  what.  Accordingly 
he  bent  down,  but  he  could  find  nothing  in  his  imagination 
more  tender  and  personal  than  this,  — 

"Why  does  your  mother  always  wear  that  surcoat  with 
armorial  designs,  like  our  grandmothers  of  the  time  of  Charles 
VII.  ?  Tell  her,  fair  cousin,  that  'tis  no  longer  the  fashion, 
and  that  the  hinge  (gond)  and  the  laurel  (laurier)  embroid- 
ered on  her  robe  give  her  the  air  of  a  walking  mantlepiece. 
In  truth,  people  no  longer  sit  thus  on  their  banners,  I  assure 
you." 

Fleur-de-Lys  raised  her  beautiful  eyes,  full  of  reproach, 
"  Is  that  all  of  which  you  can  assure  me  ?  "  she  said,  in  a  low 
voice. 

In  the  meantime,  Dame  Aloi'se,  delighted  to  see  them  thus 
bending  towards  each  other  and  whispering,  said  as  she  toyed 
with  the  clasps  of  her  prayer-book,  — 

"  Touching  picture  of  love  ! " 

The  captain,  more  and  more  embarrassed,  fell  back  upon  the 
subject  of  the  tapestry,  —  "'Tis,  in  sooth,  a  charming  work  !  " 
he  exclaimed. 

Whereupon  Colombe  de  Gaillefontaine,  another  beautiful 
blonde,  with  a  white  skin,  dressed  to  the  neck  in  blue  damask, 
ventured  a  timid  remark  which  she  addressed  to  Fleur-de-Lys, 
in  the  hope  that  the  handsome  captain  would  reply  to  it,  "  My 
dear  Gondelaurier,  have  you  seen  the  tapestries  of  the  Hotel 
de  la  Roche-Guyon  ?  " 


6  NOTRE-DAME. 

"Is  not  that  the  hotel  in  which  is  enclosed  the  garden  of 
the  Lingere  du  Louvre  ?  "  asked  Diane  de  Christeuil  with  a 
laugh ;  for  she  had  handsome  teeth,  and  consequently  laughed 
on  every  occasion. 

"And  where  there  is  that  big,  old  tower  of  the  ancient 
wall  of  Paris,"  added  Amelotte  de  Montmichel,  a  pretty  fresh 
and  curly-headed  brunette,  who  had  a  habit  of  sighing  just  as 
the  other  laughed,  without  knowing  why. 

"  My  dear  Colombe,"  interpolated  Dame  Alo'ise,  "  do  you 
not  mean  the  hotel  which  belonged  to  Monsieur  de  Bacque- 
ville,  in  the  reign  of  King  Charles  VI.  ?  there  are  indeed 
many  superb  high  warp  tapestries  there." 

"  Charles  VI. !  Charles  VI ! "  muttered  the  young  captain, 
twirling  his  moustache.  "  Good  heavens !  what  old  things 
the  good  dame  does  remember  !" 

Madame  de  Gondelaurier  continued,  "Fine  tapestries,  in 
truth.  A  work  so  esteemed  that  it  passes  as  unrivalled." 

At  that  moment  Berangere  de  Champchevrier,  a  slender 
little  maid  of  seven  years,  who  was  peering  into  the  square 
through  the  trefoils  of  the  balcony,  exclaimed,  "Oh!  look, 
fair  Godmother  Fleur-de-Lys,  at  that  pretty  dancer  who  is 
dancing  on  the  pavement  and  playing  the  tambourine  in  the 
midst  of  the  loutish  bourgeois  !  " 

The  sonorous  vibration  of  a  tambourine  was,  in  fact,  audible. 

"  Some  gypsy  from  Bohemia,"  said  Fleur-de-Lys,  turning 
carelessly  toward  the  square. 

"  Look !  look  ! "  exclaimed  her  lively  companions ;  and  they 
all  ran  to  the  edge  of  the  balcony,  while  Fleur-de-Lys,  ren- 
dered thoughtful  by  the  coldness  of  her  betrothed,  followed 
them  slowly,  and  the  latter,  relieved  by  this  incident,  which 
put  an  end  to  an  embarrassing  conversation,  retreated  to  the 
farther  end  of  the  room,  with  the  satisfied  air  of  a  soldier 
released  from  duty.  Nevertheless,  the  fair  Fleur-de-Lys's  was 
a  charming  and  noble  service,  and  such  it  had  formerly 
appeared  to  him;  but  the  captain  had  gradually  become 
blase ;  the  prospect  of  a  speedy  marriage  cooled  him  more 
every  day.  Moreover,  he  was  of  a  fickle  disposition,  and, 
must  we  say  it,  rather  vulgar  in  taste.  Although  of  very 


CONFIDING   ONE'S  SECRET  TO  A   GOAT.  7 

noble  birth,  he  had  contracted  in  his  official  harness  more 
than  one  habit  of  the  common  trooper.  The  tavern  and  its 
accompaniments  pleased  him.  He  was  only  at  his  ease  amid 
gross  language,  military  gallantries,  facile  beauties,  and  suc- 
cesses yet  more  easy.  He  had,  nevertheless,  received  from 
his  family  some  education  and  some  politeness  of  manner ; 
but  he  had  been  thrown  on  the  world  too  young,  he  had  been 
in  garrison  at  too  early  an  age,  and  every  day  the  polish  of  a 
gentleman  became  more  and  more  effaced  by  the  rough  fric- 
tion of  his  gendarme's  cross-belt.  While  still  continuing  to 
visit  her  from  time  to  time,  from  a  remnant  of  common 
respect,  he  felt  doubly  embarrassed  with  Fleur-de-Lys ;  in  the 
first  place,  because,  in  consequence  of  having  scattered  his 
love  in  all  sorts  of  places,  he  had  reserved  very  little  for  her ; 
in  the  next  place,  because,  amid  so  many  stiff,  formal,  and 
decent  ladies,  he  was  in  constant  fear  lest  his  mouth,  habitu- 
ated to  oaths,  should  suddenly  take  the  bit  in  its  teeth,  and 
break  out  into  the  language  of  the  tavern.  The  effect  can 
be  imagined ! 

Moreover,  all  this  was  mingled  in  him,  with  great  preten- 
tions  to  elegance,  toilet,  and  a  fine  appearance.  Let  the 
reader  reconcile  these  things  as  best  he  can.  I  am  simply  the 
historian. 

He  had  remained,  therefore,  for  several  minutes,  leaning  in 
silence  against  the  carved  jamb  of  the  chimney,  and  thinking 
or  not  thinking,  when  Fleur-de-Lys  suddenly  turned  and  ad- 
dressed him.  After  all,  the  poor  young  girl  was  pouting 
against  the  dictates  of  her  heart. 

"  Fair  cousin,  did  you  not  speak  to  us  of  a  little  Bohemian 
whom  you  saved  a  couple  of  months  ago,  while  making  the 
patrol  with  the  watch  at  night,  from  the  hands  of  a  dozen 
robbers  ?  " 

"  I  believe  so,  fair  cousin,"  said  the  captain. 

"  Well,"  she  resumed,  "  perchance  'tis  that  same  gypsy  girl 
who  is  dancing  yonder,  on  the  church  square.  Come  and  see 
if  you  recognize  her,  fair  Cousin  Phoebus." 

A  secret  desire  for  reconciliation  was  apparent  in  this  gentle 
invitation  which  she  gave  him  to  approach  her,  and  in  the 


8  NOTRE-DAME. 

care  which  she  took  to  call  him  by  name.  Captain  Phoebus 
de  Chateaupers  (for  it  is  he  whom  the  reader  has  had  before 
his  eyes  since  the  begining  of  this  chapter)  sloAvly  approached 
the  balcony.  "  Stay,"  said  Fleur-de-Lys,  laying  her  hand  ten- 
derly on  Phoebus's  arm ;  "  look  at  that  little  girl  yonder,  dan- 
cing in  that  circle.  Is  she  your  Bohemian  ?  " 

Phoebus  looked,  and  said,  — 

"  Yes,  I  recognize  her  by  her  goat." 

"  Oh !  in  fact,  what  a  pretty  little  goat ! "  said  Amelotte, 
clasping  her  hands  in  admiration. 

"  Are  his  horns  of  real  gold  ?  "  inquired  Berangere. 

Without  moving  from  her  arm-chair,  Dame  Alo'ise  inter- 
posed, "  Is  she  not  one  of  those  gypsy  girls  who  arrived  last 
year  by  the  Gibard  gate  ?  " 

"  Madame  my  mother,"  said  Fleur-de-Lys  gently,  "  that  gate 
is  now  called  the  Porte  d'Enfer." 

Mademoiselle  de  Gondelaurier  knew  how  her  mother's  an- 
tiquated mode  of  speech  shocked  the  captain.  In  fact,  he 
began  to  sneer,  and  muttered  between  his  teeth :  "  Porte  Gib- 
ard !  Porte  Gibard !  'Tis  enough  to  make  King  Charles  VI. 
pass  by." 

"  Godmother !  "  exclaimed  Berangere,  whose  eyes,  inces- 
santly in  motion,  had  suddenly  been  raised  to  the  summit  of 
the  towers  of  Notre-Dame,  "who  is  that  black  man  up 
yonder  ?  " 

All  the  young  girls  raised  their  eyes.  A  man  was,  in  truth, 
leaning  on  the  balustrade  which  surmounted  the  northern 
tower,  looking  on  the  Greve.  He  was  a  priest.  His  costume 
could  be  plainly  discerned,  and  his  face  resting  on  both  his 
hands.  But  he  stirred  no  more  than  if  he  had  been  a  statue. 
His  eyes,  intently  fixed,  gazed  into  the  Place. 

It  was  something  like  the  immobility  of  a  bird  of  prey,  who 
has  just  discovered  a  nest  of  sparrows,  and  is  gazing  at  it. 

"  'Tis  monsieur  the  archdeacon  of  Josas,"  said  Fleur-de-Lys. 

"  You  have  good  eyes  if  you  can  recognize  him  from  here," 
said  the  Gaillefontaine. 

"  How  he  is  staring  at  the  little  dancer ! "  went  on  Diane 
de  Christeuil. 


CONFIDING   ONE'S   SECRET  TO  A   GOAT.  9 

"  Let  the  gypsy  beware  ! "  said  Fleur-de-Lys,  "  for  he  loves 
not  Egypt." 

"  'Tis  a  great  shame  for  that  man  to  look  upon  her  thus," 
added  Amelotte  de  jNIontmichel,  "for  she  dances  delight- 
fully." 

"  Fair  cousin  Phoebus,"  said  Fleur-de-Lys  suddenly,  "  Since 
you  know  this  little  gypsy,  make  her  a  sign  to  come  up  here. 
It  will  amuse  us." 

"  Oh,  yes ! "  exclaimed  all  the  young  girls,  clapping  their 
hands. 

"  Why  !  'tis  not  worth  while,"  replied  Phoebus.  "  She  has 
forgotten  me,  no  doubt,  and  I  know  not  so  much  as  her 
name.  Nevertheless,  as  you  wish  it,  young  ladies,  I  will 
make  the  trial."  And  leaning  over  the  balustrade  of  the 
balcony,  he  began  to  shout,  "  Little  one ! " 

The  dancer  was  not  beating  her  tambourine  at  the  moment. 
She  turned  her  head  towards  the  point  whence  this  call  pro- 
ceeded, her  brilliant  eyes  rested  on  Phoebus,  and  she  stopped 
short. 

"  Little  one ! "  repeated  the  captain ;  and  he  beckoned  her 
to  approach. 

The  young  girl  looked  at  him  again,  then  she  blushed  as 
though  a  flame  had  mounted  into  her  cheeks,  and,  taking  her 
tambourine  under  her  arm,  she  made  her  way  through  the 
astonished  spectators  towards  the  door  of  the  house  where 
Phoebus  was  calling  her,  with  slow,  tottering  steps,  and  with 
the  troubled  look  of  a  bird  which  is  yielding  to  the  fascina- 
tion of  a  serpent. 

A  moment  later,  the  tapestry  portiere  was  raised,  and  the 
gypsy  appeared  on  the  threshold  of  the  chamber,  blushing, 
confused,  breathless,  her  large  eyes  drooping,  and  not  daring 
to  advance  another  step. 

Berangere  clapped  her  hands. 

Meanwhile,  the  dancer  remained  motionless  upon  the  thresh- 
old. Her  appearance  had  produced  a  singular  effect  \ipon 
these  young  girls.  It  is  certain  that  a  vague  and  indistinct 
desire  to  please  the  handsome  officer  animated  them  all,  that 
his  splendid  uniform  was  the  target  of  all  their  coquetries, 


10  NOTRE-DAME. 

and  that  from  the  moment  he  presented  himself,  there  existed 
among  them  a  secret,  suppressed  rivalry,  which  they  hardly 
acknowledged  even  to  themselves,  but  which  broke  forth, 
none  the  less,  every  instant,  in  their  gestures  and  remarks. 
Nevertheless,  as  they  were  all  very  nearly  equal  in  beauty, 
they  contended  with  equal  arms,  and  each  could  hope  for  the 
victory.  The  arrival  of  the  gypsy  suddenly  destroyed  this 
equilibrium.  Her  beauty  was  so  rare,  that,  at  the  moment 
when  she  appeared  at  the  entrance  of  the  apartment,  it 
seemed  as  though  she  diffused  a  sort  of  light  which  was 
peculiar  to  herself.  In  that  narrow  chamber,  surrounded  by 
that  sombre  frame  of  hangings  and  woodwork,  she  was  incom- 
parably more  beautiful  and  more  radiant  than  on  the  public 
square.  She  was  like  a  torch  which  has  suddenly  been 
brought  from  broad  daylight  into  the  dark.  The  noble  dam- 
sels were  dazzled  by  her  in  spite  of  themselves.  Each  one 
felt  herself,  in  some  sort,  wounded  in  her  beauty.  Hence, 
their  battle  front  (may  we  be  allowed  the  expression,)  was 
immediately  altered,  although  they  exchanged  not  a  single 
word.  But  they  understood  each  other  perfectly.  Women's 
instincts  comprehend  and  respond  to  each  other  more  quickly 
than  the  intelligences  of  men.  An  enemy  had  just  arrived ; 
all  felt  it  —  all  rallied  together.  One  drop  of  wine  is  suffi- 
cient to  tinge  a  glass  of  water  red ;  to  diffuse  a  certain  degree 
of  ill  temper  throughout  a  whole  assembly  of  pretty  women, 
the  arrival  of  a  prettier  woman  suffices,  especially  when  there 
is  but  one  man  present. 

Hence  the  welcome  accorded  to  the  gypsy  was  marvellously 
glacial.  They  surveyed  her  from  head  to  foot,  then  ex- 
changed glances,  and  all  was  said:  they  understood  each 
other.  Meanwhile,  the  young  girl  was  waiting  to  be  spoken 
to,  in  such  emotion  that  she  dared  not  raise  her  eyelids. 

The  captain  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence.  "  Upon  my 
word,"  said  he,  in  his  tone  of  intrepid  fatuity,  "here  is  a 
charming  creature  !  What  think  you  of  her,  fair  cousin  ?  " 

This  remark,  which  a  more  delicate  admirer  would  have 
uttered  in  a  lower  tone,  at  least  was  not  of  a  nature  to  dissi- 
pate the  feminine  jealousies  which  were  on  the  alert  before 
the  gypsy. 


CONFIDING   ONE'S   SECRET   TO  A   GOAT.  \\ 

Fleur-de-Lys  replied  to  the  captain  with  a  bland  affectation 
of  disdain,  —  "  Not  bad." 

The  others  whispered. 

At  length,  Madame  Aloise,  who  was  not  the  less  jealous 
because  she  was  so  for  her  daughter,  addressed  the  dancer,  — 

"Approach,  little  one." 

"Approach,  little  one!"  repeated,  with  comical  dignity, 
little  Berangere,  who  would  have  reached  about  as  high  as  her 
hips. 

The  gypsy  advanced  towards  the  noble  dame. 

"Fair  child,"  said  Phoebus,  with  emphasis,  taking  several 
steps  towards  her,  "I  do  not  know  whether  I  have  the 
supreme  honor  of  being  recognized  by  you." 

She  interrupted  him,  with  a  smile  and  a  look  full  of  infi- 
nite sweetness,  — 

"  Oh !  yes,"  said  she. 

"  She  has  a  good  memory,"  remarked  Fleur-de-Lys. 

"Come,  now,"  resumed  Phoebus,  "you  escaped  nimbly  the 
other  evening.  Did  I  frighten  you  ! " 

"  Oh !  no,"  said  the  gypsy. 

There  was  in  the  intonation  of  that  "Oh!  no,"  uttered 
after  that  "  Oh !  yes,"  an  ineffable  something  which  wounded 
Fleur-de-Lys. 

"  You  left  me  in  your  stead,  my  beauty,"  pursued  the  cap- 
tain, whose  tongue  was  unloosed  when  speaking  to  a  girl 
out  of  the  street,  "a  crabbed  knave,  one-eyed  and  hunch- 
backed, the  bishop's  bellringer,  I  believe.  I  have  been  told 
that  by  birth  he  is  the  bastard  of  an  archdeacon  and  a  devil. 
He  has  a  pleasant  name :  he  is  called  Quatre-Temps  (Ember 
Days),  Pdques-Fleuries  (Palm  Sunday),  Mardi-Gras  (Shrove 
Tuesday),  I  know  not  what !  The  name  of  some  festival  when 
the  bells  are  pealed !  So  he  took  the  liberty  of  carrying  you 
off,  as  though  you  were  made  for  beadles  !  'Tis  too  much. 
What  the  devil  did  that  screech-owl  want  with  you  ?  Hey, 
tell  me ! " 

"  I  do  not  know,"  she  replied. 

"  The  inconceivable  impudence  !  A  bellringer  carrying  off 
a  wench,  like  a  vicomte  !  a  lout  poaching  on  the  game  of  gentle- 


12  NOTRE-DAME. 

men !  that  is  a  rare  piece  of  assurance.  However,  he  paid 
dearly  for  it.  Master  Pierrat  Torterue  is  the  harshest  groom 
that  ever  curried  a  knave ;  and  I  can  tell  you,  if  it  will  be 
agreeable  to  you,  that  your  bellringer's  hide  got  a  thorough 
dressing  at  his  hands." 

"  Poor  man  ! "  said  the  gypsy,  in  whom  these  words  revived 
the  memory  of  the  pillory. 

The  captain  burst  out  laughing. 

"  Corne-de-boeuf !  here's  pity  as  well  placed  as  a  feather  in 
a  pig's  tail !  May  I  have  as  big  a  belly  as  a  pope,  if  —  " 

He  stopped  short.  "  Pardon  me,  ladies ;  I  believe  that  I 
was  on  the  point  of  saying  something  foolish." 

"  Fie,  sir ! "  said  la  Gaillefontaine. 

"  He  talks  to  that  creature  in  her  own  tongue ! "  added 
Fleur-de-Lys,  in  a  low  tone,  her  irritation  increasing  every 
moment.  This  irritation  was  not  diminished  when  she  beheld 
the  captain,  enchanted  with  the  gipsy,  and,  most  of  all,  with 
himself,  execute  a  pirouette  on  his  heel,  repeating  with  coarse, 
na'ive,  and  soldierly  gallantry,  — 

"  A  handsome  wench,  upon  my  soul ! " 

"  Bather  savagely  dressed,"  said  Diane  de  Christeuil,  laugh- 
ing to  show  her  fine  teeth. 

This  remark  was  a  flash  of  light  to  the  others.  Not  being 
able  to  impugn  her  beauty,  they  attacked  her  costume. 

"  That  is  true,"  said  la  Montmichel ;  "  what  makes  you  run 
about  the  streets  thus,  without  guimpe  or  ruff  ?  " 

"That  petticoat  is  so  short  that  it  makes  one  tremble/' 
added  la  Gaillefontaine. 

"  My  dear,"  continued  Fleur-de-Lys,  with  decided  sharpness, 
"  You  will  get  yourself  taken  up  by  the  sumptuary  police  for 
your  gilded  girdle." 

"  Little  one,  little  one,"  resumed  la  Christeuil,  with  an  im- 
placable smile,"  if  you  were  to  put  respectable  sleeves  upon 
your  arms  they  would  get  less  sunburned." 

It  was,  in  truth,  a  spectacle  worthy  of  a  more  intelligent 
spectator  than  Phoebus,  to  see  how  these  beautiful  maidens, 
with  their  envenomed  and  angry  tongues,  wound,  serpent 
like,  and  glided  and  writhed  around  the  street  dancer.  They 


CONFIDING   ONE'S   SECRET  TO  A   GOAT.  13 

were  cruel  and  graceful ;  they  searched  and  rummaged  mali- 
ciously in  her  poor  and  silly  toilet  of  spangles  and  tinsel. 
There  was  no  end  to  their  laughter,  irony,  and  humiliation. 
Sarcasms  rained  down  upon  the  gypsy,  and  haughty  conde- 
scension and  malevolent  looks.  One  would  have  thought 
they  were  young  Roman  dames  thrusting  golden  pins  into  the 
breast  of  a  beautiful  slave.  One  would  have  pronounced 
them  elegant  gray  hounds,  circling,  with  inflated  nostrils,  round 
a  poor  woodland  fawn,  whom  the  glance  of  their  master 
forbade  them  to  devour. 

After  all,  what  was  a  miserable  dancer  on  the  public  squares 
in  the  presence  of  these  high-born  maidens  ?  They  seemed 
to  take  no  heed  of  her  presence,  and  talked  of  her  aloud,  to 
her  face,  as  of  something  unclean,  abject,  and  yet,  at  the 
same  time,  passably  pretty. 

The  gypsy  was  not  insensible  to  these  pin-pricks.  From 
time  to  time  a  flush  of  shame,  a  flash  of  anger  inflamed  her 
eyes  or  her  cheeks ;  with  disdain  she  made  that  little  grimace 
with  which  the  reader  is  already  familiar,  but  she  remained 
motionless ;  she  fixed  on  Phoebus  a  sad,  sweet,  resigned  look. 
There  was  also  happiness  and  tenderness  in  that  gaze.  One 
would  have  said  that  she  endured  for  fear  of  being  expelled. 

Phoebus  laughed,  and  took  the  gypsy's  part  with  a  mixture 
of  impertinence  and  pity. 

"  Let  them  talk,  little  one  ! "  he  repeated,  jingling  his  golden 
spurs.  "  Xo  doubt  your  toilet  is  a  little  extravagant  and  wild, 
but  what  difference  does  that  make  with  such  a  charming 
damsel  as  yourself  ?  " 

"  Good  gracious  !  "  exclaimed  the  blonde  Gaillefontaine, 
drawing  up  her  swan-like  throat,  with  a  bitter  smile.  "  I  see 
that  messieurs  the  archers  of  the  king's  police  easily  take  fire 
at  the  handsome  eyes  of  gypsies ! " 

"  Why  not  ?  "  said  Phoebus. 

At  this  reply  uttered  carelessly  by  the  captain,  like  a  stray 
stone,  whose  fall  one  does  not  even  watch,  Colombe  began  to 
laugh,  as  well  as  Diane,  Amelotte,  and  Fleur-de-Lys,  into 
whose  eyes  at  the  same  time  a  tear  started. 

The  gypsy,  Avho  had  dropped  her  eyes  on  the  floor  at  the 


14  NOTRE-DANE. 

words  of  Colombe  de  Gaillefontaine,  raised  them  beaming  with 
joy  and  pride  and  fixed  them  once  more  on  Phoebus.  She  was 
very  beautiful  at  that  moment. 

The  old  dame,  who  was  watching  this  scene,  felt  offended, 
without  understanding  why. 

"  Holy  Virgin ! "  she  suddenly  exclaimed,  "  what  is  it 
moving  about  my  legs  ?  Ah !  the  villanous  beast ! " 

It  was  the  goat,  who  had  just  arrived,  in  search  of  his  mis- 
tress, and  who,  in  dashing  towards  the  latter,  had  begun  by 
entangling  his  horns  in  the  pile  of  stuffs  which  the  noble 
dame's  garments  heaped  up  on  her  feet  when  she  was  seated. 

This  created  a  diversion.  The  gypsy  disentangled  his 
horns  without  uttering  a  word. 

"  Oh !  here's  the  little  goat  with  golden  hoofs  ! "  exclaimed 
Berangere,  dancing  with  joy. 

The  gypsy  crouched  down  on  her  knees  and  leaned  her 
cheek  against  the  fondling  head  of  the  goat.  One  would  have 
said  that  she  was  asking  pardon  for  having  quitted  it  thus. 

Meanwhile,  Diane  had  bent  down  to  Colombo's  ear. 

"  Ah  !  good  heavens  !  why  did  not  I  think  of  that  sooner  ? 
'Tis  the  gypsy  with  the  goat.  They  say  she  is  a  sorceress, 
and  that  her  goat  executes  very  miraculous  tricks." 

"Well!"  said  Colombe,  "the  goat  must  now  amuse  us  in 
its  turn,  and  perform  a  miracle  for  us." 

Diane  and  Colombe  eagerly  addressed  the  gypsy. 

"  Little  one,  make  your  goat  perform  a  miracle." 

"  I  do  not  know  what  you  mean,"  replied  the  dancer. 

"  A  miracle,  a  piece  of  magic,  a  bit  of  sorcery,  in  short." 

"I  do  not  understand."  And  she  fell  to  caressing  the 
pretty  animal,  repeating,  "Djali!  Djali!" 

At  that  moment  Fleur-de-Lys  noticed  a  little  bag  of  em- 
broidered leather  suspended  from  the  neck  of  the  goat,  — 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  she  asked  of  the  gipsy. 

The  gipsy  raised  her  large  eyes  upon  her  and  replied 
gravely,  — 

"  That  is  my  secret." 

"  I  should  really  like  to  know  what  your  secret  is,"  thought 
Fleur-de-Lys. 


CONFIDING   ONE'S  SECRET  TO  A   GOAT.  15 

Meanwhile,  the  good  dame  had  risen  angrily,  — "  Coine 
now,  gypsy,  if  neither  you  nor  your  goat  can  dance  for  us, 
what  are  you  doing  here  ?  " 

The  gypsy  walked  slowly  towards  the  door,  without  mak- 
ing any  reply.  But  the  nearer  she  approached  it,  the  more 
her.  pace  slackened.  An  irresistible  magnet  seemed  to  hold 
her.  Suddenly  she  turned  her  eyes,  wet  with  tears,  towards 
Phoebus,  and  halted. 

"  True  God  ! "  exclaimed  the  captain,  "  that's  not  the  way 
to  depart.  Come  back  and  dance  something  for  us.  By  the 
way,  my  sweet  love,  what  is  your  name  ?  " 

"La  Esmeralda,"  said  the  dancer,  never  taking  her  eyes 
from  him. 

At  this  strange  name,  a  burst  of  wild  laughter  broke  from 
the  young  girls. 

"  Here's  a  terrible  name  for  a  young  lady,"  said  Diane. 

"  You  see  well  enough,"  retorted  Amelotte,  "  that  she  is  an 
enchantress." 

"  My  dear,"  exclaimed  Dame  Alo'ise  solemnly,  "your  parents 
did  not  commit  the  sin  of  giving  you  that  name  at  the  baptis- 
mal font." 

In  the  meantime,  several  minutes  previously,  Berangere  had 
coaxed  the  goat  into  a  corner  of  the  room  with  a  marchpane 
cake,  without  any  one  having  noticed  her.  In  an  instant  they 
had  become  good  friends.  The  curious  child  had  detached 
the  bag  from  the  goat's  neck,  had  opened  it,  and  had  emptied 
out  its  contents  on  the  rush  matting ;  it  was  an  alphabet,  each 
letter  of  which  was  separately  inscribed  on  a  tiny  block  of 
boxwood.  Hardly  had  these  playthings  been  spread  out  on 
the  matting,  when  the  child,  with  surprise,  beheld  the  goat 
(one  of  whose  "  miracles  "  this  was  no  doubt),  draw  out  cer- 
tain letters  with  its  golden  hoof,  and  arrange  them,  with 
gentle  pushes,  in  a  certain  order.  In  a  moment  they  consti- 
tuted a  word,  which  the  goat  seemed  to  have  been  trained  to 
write,  so  little  hesitation  did  it  show  in  forming  it,  and  Beran- 
gere suddenly  exclaimed,  clasping  her  hands  in  admiration,  — 

"Godmother  Fleur-de-Lys,  see  what  the  goat  has  just 
done !  " 


16  NOTEE-DAME. 

Fleur-de-Lys  ran  up  and  trembled.  The  letters  arranged 
upon  the  floor  formed  this  word,  — 

PHCEBUS. 

"  Was  it  the  goat  who  wrote  that  ?  "  she  inquired  in  a 
changed  voice. 

"  Yes,  godmother,"  replied  Berangere. 

It  was  impossible  to  doubt  it ;  the  child  did  not  know  how 
to  write. 

"  This  is  the  secret !  "  thought  Fleur-de-Lys. 

Meanwhile,  at  the  child's  exclamation,  all  had  hastened  up, 
the  mother,  the  young  girls,  the  gypsy,  and  the  officer. 

The  gypsy  beheld  the  piece  of  folly  which  the  goat  had  com- 
mitted. She  turned  red,  then  pale,  and  began  to  tremble  like 
a  culprit  before  the  captain,  who  gazed  at  her  with  a  smile  of 
satisfaction  and  amazement. 

"  Phoebus  !  "  whispered  the  young  girls,  stupefied :  "  'tis 
the  captain's  name  ! " 

"  You  have  a  marvellous  memory ! "  said  Fleur-de-Lys,  to 
the  petrified  gipsy.  Then,  bursting  into  sobs  :  —  "  Oh  ! "  she 
stammered  mournfully,  hiding  her  face  in  both  her  beautiful 
hands,  "  she  is  a  magician ! "  And  she  heard  another  and  a 
still  more  bitter  voice  at  the  bottom  of  her  heart,  saying,  — 
"  She  is  a  rival !  " 

She  fell  fainting. 

"  My  daughter !  my  daughter  !  "  cried  the  terrified  mother. 
"  Begone,  you  gypsy  of  hell !  " 

In  a  twinkling,  La  Esmeralda  gathered  up  the  unlucky 
letters,  made  a  sign  to  Djali,  and  went  out  through  one  door, 
while  Fleur-de-Lys  was  being  carried  out  through  the  other. 

Captain  Phoebus,  on  being  left  alone,  hesitated  for  a  moment 
between  the  two  doors,  then  he  followed  the  gypsy. 


CHAPTER  II. 

A    PRIEST    AND    A    PHILOSOPHER    ARE    TWO    DIFFERENT    THINGS. 

THE  priest  whom  the  young  girls  had  observed  at  the  top  of 
the  North  tower,  leaning  over  the  Place  and  so  attentive  to  the 
dance  of  the  gypsy,  was,  in  fact,  Archdeacon  Claude  Frollo. 

Our  readers  have  not  forgotten  the  mysterious  cell  which 
the  archdeacon  had  reserved  for  himself  in  that  tower.  (I  do 
not  know,  by  the  way  be  it  said,  whether  it  be  not  the  same, 
the  interior  of  which  can  be  seen  to-day  through  a  little  square 
window,  opening  to  the  east  at  the  height  of  a  man  above  the 
platform  from  which  the  towers  spring ;  a  bare  and  dilapi- 
dated den,  whose  badly  plastered  walls  are  ornamented  here 
and  there,  at  the  present  day,  with  some  wretched  yellow 
engravings  representing  the  facades  of  cathedrals.  I  presume 
that  this  hole  is  jointly  inhabited  by  bats  and  spiders,  and 
that,  consequently,  it  Avages  a  double  war  of  extermination 
on  the  flies). 

Every  day,  an  hour  before  sunset,  the  archdeacon  ascended 
the  staircase  to  the  tower,  and  shut  himself  up  in  this  cell, 
where  he  sometimes  passed  whole  nights.  That  day,  at  the 
moment  when,  standing  before  the  low  door  of  his  retreat,  he 
was  fitting  into  the  lock  the  complicated  little  key  which  he 
always  carried  about  him  in  the  purse  suspended  to  his  side, 
a  sound  of  tambourine  and  castanets  had  reached  his  ear. 
These  sounds  came  from  the  Place  du  Parvis.  The  cell,  as  we 
have  already  said,  had  only  one  window  opening  upon  the  rear 

17 


18  NOTRE-DAME. 

of  the  church.  Claude  Frollo  had  hastily  withdrawn  the  key, 
and  an  instant  later,  he  was  on  the  top  of  the  tower,  in  the 
gloomy  and  pensive  attitude  in  which  the  maidens  had  seen 
him. 

There  he  stood,  grave,  motionless,  absorbed  in  one  look  and 
one  thought.  All  Paris  lay  at  his  feet,  with  the  thousand  spires 
of  its  edifices  and  its  circular  horizon  of  gentle  hills  —  with 
its  river  winding  under  its  bridges,  and  its  people  moving  to 
and  fro  through  its  streets,  —  with  the  clouds  of  its  smoke,  — 
with  the  mountainous  chain  of  its  roofs  which  presses  Notre- 
Dame  in  its  doubled  folds ;  but  out  of  all  the  city,  the  arch- 
deacon gazed  at  one  corner  only  of  the  pavement,  the  Place  du 
Parvis ;  in  all  that  throng  at  but  one  figure,  —  the  gypsy. 

It  would  have  been  difficult  to  say  what  was  the  nature  of  this 
look,  and  whence  proceeded  the  flame  that  flashed  from  it.  It 
was  a  fixed  gaze,  which  was,  nevertheless,  full  of  trouble  and 
tumult.  And,  from  the  profound  immobility  of  his  whole 
body,  barely  agitated  at  intervals  by  an  involuntary  shiver,  as 
a  tree  is  moved  by  the  wind ;  from  the  stiffness  of  his  elbows, 
more  marble  than  the  balustrade  on  which  they  leaned;  or 
the  sight  of  the  petrified  smile  which  contracted  his  face, — 
one  would  have  said  that  nothing  living  was  left  about  Claude 
Frollo  except  his  eyes. 

The  gypsy  was  dancing;  she  was  twirling  her  tambourine 
on  the  tip  of  her  finger,  and  tossing  it  into  the  air  as  she 
danced  Provencal  sarabands ;  agile,  light,  joyous,  and  uncon- 
scious of  the  formidable  gaze  which  descended  perpendicularly 
upon  her  head. 

The  crowd  was  swarming  around  her  ;  from  time  to  time,  a 
man  accoutred  in  red  and  yellow  made  them  form  into  a  circle, 
and  then  returned,  seated  himself  on  a  chair  a  few  paces  from 
the  dancer,  and  took  the  goat's  head  on  his  knees.  This  man 
seemed  to  be  the  gypsy's  companion.  Claude  Frollo  could  not 
distinguish  his  features  from  his  elevated  post. 

From  the  moment  when  the  archdeacon  caught  sight  of  this 
stranger,  his  attention  seemed  divided  between  him  and  the 
dancer,  and  his  face  became  more  and  more  gloomy.  All  at 
once  he  rose  upright,  and  a  quiver  ran  through  his  whole 


A   PEIEST  AND   A   PHILOSOPHER.  19 

body :  "  Who  is  that  man  ?"  he  muttered  between  his  teeth : 
"  I  have  always  seen  her  alone  before  ! " 

Then  he  plunged  down  beneath  the  tortuous  vault  of  the 
spiral  staircase,  and  once  more  descended.  As  he  passed  the 
door  of  the  bell  chamber,  which  was  ajar,  he  saw  something 
which  struck  him  ;  he  beheld  Quasimodo,  who,  leaning  through 
an  opening  of  one  of  those  slate  penthouses  which  resemble 
enormous  blinds,  appeared  also  to  be  gazing  at  the  Place.  He 
was  engaged  in  so  profound  a  contemplation,  that  he  did  not 
notice  the  passage  of  his  adopted  father.  His  savage  eye  had 
a  singular  expression  ;  it  was  a  charmed,  tender  look.  "  This 
is  strange  !  "  murmured  Claude.  "  Is  it  the  gypsy  at  whom 
he  is  thus  gazing  ?  "  He  continued  his  descent.  At  the  end 
of  a  few  minutes,  the  anxious  archdeacon  entered  upon  the 
Place  from  the  door  at  the  base  of  the  tower. 

"  What  has  become  of  the  gypsy  girl  ?  "  he  said,  mingling 
with  the  group  of  spectators  which  the  sound  of  the  tambour- 
ine had  collected. 

"  I  know  not,"  replied  one  of  his  neighbors,  "  I  think  that 
she  has  gone  to  make  some  of  her  fandangoes  in  the  house 
opposite,  whither  they  have  called  her." 

In  the  place  of  the  gypsy,  on  the  carpet,  whose  arabesques 
had  seemed  td  vanish  but  a  moment  previously  by  the  capri- 
cious figures  of  her  dance,  the  archdeacon  no  longer  beheld 
any  one  but  the  red  and  yellow  man,  who,  in  order  to  earn  a 
few  testers  in  his  turn,  was  walking  round  the  circle,  with  his 
elbows  on  his  hips,  his  head  thrown  back,  his  face  red,  his 
neck  outstretched,  with  a  chair  between  his  teeth.  To  the 
chair  he  had  fastened  a  cat,  which  a  neighbor  had  lent,  and 
which  was  spitting  in  great  affright. 

"  Xotre-Dame !  "  exclaimed  the  archdeacon,  at  the  moment 
when  the  juggler,  perspiring  heavily,  passed  in  front  of  him 
with  his  pyramid  of  chair  and  his  cat,  "What  is  Master 
Pierre  Gringoire  doing  here  ?  " 

The  harsh  voice  of  the  archdeacon  threw  the  poor  fellow 
into  such  a  commotion  that  he  lost  his  equilibrium,  together 
with  his  whole  edifice,  and  the  chair  and  the  cat  tumbled  pell- 
mell  upon  the  heads  of  the  spectators,  in  the  midst  of  inex- 
tinguishable hootings. 


20  NOTRE-DAME. 

It  is  probable  that  Master  Pierre  Gringoire  (for  it  was  in- 
deed he)  would  have  had  a  sorry  account  to  settle  with  the 
neighbor  who  owned  the  cat,  and  all  the  bruised  and  scratched 
faces  which  surrounded  him,  if  he  had  not  hastened  to  profit 
by  the  tumult  to  take  refuge  in  the  church,  whither  Claude 
Frollo  had  made  him  a  sign  to  follow  him. 

The  cathedral  was  already  dark  and  deserted  ;  the  side-aisles 
were  full  of  shadows,  and  the  lamps  of  the  chapels  began  to 
shine  out  like  stars,  so  black  had  the  vaulted  ceiling  become. 
Only  the  great  rose  window  of  the  facade,  whose  thousand 
colors  were  steeped  in  a  ray  of  horizontal  sunlight,  glittered 
in  the  gloom  like  a  mass  of  diamonds,  and  threw  its  dazzling 
reflection  to  the  other  end  of  the  nave. 

When  they  had  advanced  a  few  paces,  Dom  Claude  placed 
his  back  against  a  pillar,  and  gazed  intently  at  Gringoire. 
The  gaze  was  not  the  one  which  Gringoire  feared,  ashamed  as 
he  was  of  having  been  caught  by  a  grave  and  learned  person 
in  the  costume  of  a  buffoon.  There  was  nothing  mocking  or 
ironical  in  the  priest's  glance,  it  was  serious,  tranquil,  pierc- 
ing. The  archdeacon  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence. 

"Come  now,  Master  Pierre.  You  are  to  explain  many 
things  to  me.  And  first  of  all,  how  comes  it  that  you  have 
not  been  seen  for  two  months,  and  that  now  on£  finds  you  in 
the  public  squares,  in  a  fine  equipment  in  truth  !  Motley  red 
and  yellow,  like  a  Caudebec  apple  ?  " 

"  Messire,"  said  Gringoire,  piteously,  "  it  is,  in  fact,  an  amaz- 
ing accoutrement.  You  see  me  no  more  comfortable  in  it 
than  a  cat  coiffed  with  a  calabash.  'Tis  very  ill  done,  I  am 
conscious,  to  expose  messieurs  the  sergeants  of  the  watch  to 
the  liability  of  cudgelling  beneath  this  cassock  the  humerus 
of  a  Pythagorean  philosopher.  But  what  would  you  have, 
my  reverend  master?  'tis  the  fault  of  my  ancient  jerkin, 
which  abandoned  me  in  cowardly  wise,  at  the  beginning  of 
the  winter,  under  the  pretext  that  it  was  falling  into  tatters, 
and  that  it  required  repose  in  the  basket  of  a  rag-picker. 
What  is  one  to  do  ?  Civilization  has  not  yet  arrived  at  the 
point  where  one  can  go  stark  naked,  as  ancient  Diogenes 
wished.  Add  that  a  very  cold  wind  was  blowing,  and  'tis  not 


A   PRIEST  AND   A   PHILOSOPHER.  21 

in  the  month  of  January  that  one  can  successfully  attempt  to 
make  humanity  take  this  new  step.  This  garment  presented 
itself,  I  took  it,  and  I  left  my  ancient  black  smock,  which,  for 
a  hermetic  like  myself,  was  far  from  being  hermetically 
closed.  Behold  me  then,  in  the  garments  of  a  stage-player, 
like  Saint  Genest.  What  would  you  have  ?  'tis  an  eclipse. 
Apollo  himself  tended  the  flocks  of  Admetus." 

"  'Tis  a  fine  profession  that  you  are  engaged  in  ! "  replied 
the  archdeacon. 

"  I  agree,  my  master,  that  'tis  better  to  philosophize  and 
poetize,  to  blow  the  flame  in  the  furnace,  or  to  receive  it  from 
heaven,  than  to  carry  cats  on  a  shield.  So,  when  you  ad- 
dressed me,  I  was  as  foolish  as  an  ass  before  a  turnspit.  But 
what  would  you  have,  messire  ?  One  must  eat  every  day,  and 
the  finest  Alexandrine  verses  are  not  worth  a  bit  of  Brie 
cheese.  Xow,  I  made  for  Madame  Marguerite  of  Flanders, 
that  famous  epithalamium,  as  you  know,  and  the  city  will  not 
pay  me,  under  the  pretext  that  it  was  not  excellent;  as 
though  one  could  give  a  tragedy  of  Sophocles  for  four  crowns ! 
Hence,  I  was  on  the  point  of  dying  with  hunger.  Happily, 
I  found  that  I  was  rather  strong  in  the  jaw ;  so  I  said  to  this 
jaw,  —  perform  some  feats  of  strength  and  of  equilibrium: 
nourish  thyself.  Ale  te  ipsam.  A  pack  of  beggars  who  have 
become  my  good  friends,  have  taught  me  twenty  sorts  of 
herculean  feats,  and  now  I  give  to  my  teeth  every  evening  the 
bread  which  they  have  earned  during  the  day  by  the  sAveat 
of  my  brow.  After  all,  concedo,  I  grant  that  it  is  a  sad  em- 
ployment for  my  intellectual  faculties,  and  that  man  is  not 
made  to  pass  his  life  in  beating  the  tambourine  and  biting 
chairs.  But,  reverend  master,  it  is  not  sufficient  to  pass  one's 
life,  one  must  earn  the  means  for  life." 

Dom  Claude  listened  in  silence.  All  at  once .  his  deep-set 
eye  assumed  so  sagacious  and  penetrating  an  expression,  that 
Gringoire  felt  himself,  so  to  speak,  searched  to  the  bottom  of 
the  soul  by  that  glance. 

"Very  good,  Master  Pierre  ;  but  how  comes  it  that  you  are 
now  in  company  with  that  gypsy  dancer  ?  " 

"In  faith!  ""said  Gringoire,  "'tis  because  she  is  my  wife 
and  I  am  her  husband." 


22  NOTBE-DAME. 

The  priest's  gloomy  eyes  flashed  into  flame. 

"  Have  you  done  that,  you  wretch ! "  he  cried,  seizing  Grin- 
goire's  arm  with  fury ;  "  have  you  been  so  abandoned  by  God 
as  to  raise  your  hand  against  that  girl  ?  " 

"On  my  chance  of  paradise,  monseigneur,"  replied  Grin- 
goire,  trembling  in  every  limb,  "I  swear  to  you  that  I  have 
never  touched  her,  if  that  is  what  disturbs  you." 

"  Then  why  do  you  talk  of  husband  and  wife  ?  "  said  the  priest. 

Gringoire  made  haste  to  relate  to  him  as  succinctly  as  pos- 
sible, all  that  the  reader  already  knows,  his  adventure  in  the 
Court  of  Miracles  and  the  broken-crock  marriage.  It  ap- 
peared, moreover,  that  this  marriage  had  led  to  no  results 
whatever,  and  that  each  evening  the  gypsy  girl  cheated  him 
of  his  nuptial  right  as  on  the  first  day.  "  'Tis  a  mortifica- 
tion," he  said  in  conclusion,  "  but  that  is  because  I  have  had 
the  misfortune  to  wed  a  virgin." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  demanded  the  archdeacon,  who  had 
been  gradually  appeased  by  this  recital. 

"'Tis  very  difficult  to  explain,"  replied  the  poet.  "It  is 
a  superstition.  My  wife  is,  according  to  what  an  old  thief, 
who  is  called  among  us  the  Duke  of  Egypt,  has  told  me,  a 
foundling  or  a  lost  child,  which  is  the  same  thing.  She  wears 
on  her  neck  an  amulet  which,  it  is  affirmed,  will  cause  her  to 
meet  her  parents  some  day,  but  which  will  lose  its  virtue  if 
the  young  girl  loses  hers.  Hence  it  follows  that  both  of  us 
remain  very  virtuous." 

"  So,"  resumed  Claude,  whose  brow  cleared  more  and  more, 
"  you  believe,  Master  Pierre,  that  this  creature  has  not  been 
approached  by  any  man  ?  " 

"  What  would  you  have  a  man  do,  Dom  Claude,  as  against 
a  superstition  ?  She  has  got  that  in  her  head.  I  assured!  y 
esteem  as  a.  rarity  this  nunlike  prudery  which  is  preserved 
untamed  amid  those  Bohemian  girls  who  are  so  easily  brought 
into  subjection.  But  she  has  three  things  to  protect  her :  the 
Duke  of  Egypt,  who  has  taken  her  under  his  safeguard,  reck- 
oning, perchance,  on  selling  her  to  some  gay  abbe  ;  all  his 
tribe,  who  hold  her  in  singular  veneration,  like  a  ^Notre-Dame ; 
and  a  certain  tiny  poignard,  which  the  buxom  dame  always 


A  PEIEST  AND  A   PHILOSOPHER.  23 

wears  about  her,  in  some  nook,  in  spite  of  the  ordinances  of 
the  provost,  and  which  one  causes  to  fly  out  into  her  hands 
by  squeezing  her  waisk  'Tis  a  proud  wasp,  I  can  tell  you!  " 

The  archdeacon  pressed  Gringoire  with  questions. 

La  Esmeralda,  in  the  judgment  of  Gringoire,  was  an  inoffen- 
sive and  charming  creature,  pretty,  with  the  exception  of  a 
pout  which  was  peculiar  to  her ;  a  na'ive  and  passionate  dam- 
sel, ignorant  of  everything  and  enthusiastic  about  everything ; 
not  yet  aware  of  the  difference  between  a  man  and  a  woman, 
even  in  her  dreams ;  made  like  that ;  wild  especially  over 
dancing,  noise,  the  open  air ;  a  sort  of  woman  bee,  with  in- 
visible wings  on  her  feet,  and  living  in  a  whirlwind.  She 
owed  this  nature  to  the  wandering  life  which  she  had  always 
led.  Gringoire  had  succeeded  in  learning  that,  while  a  mere 
child,  she  had  traversed  Spain  and  Catalonia,  even  to  Sicily ; 
he  believed  that  she  had  even  been  taken  by  the  caravan  of 
Zingari,  of  which  she  formed  a  part,  to  the  kingdom  of  Algiers, 
a  country  situated  in  Achaia,  which  country  adjoins,  on  one 
side  Albania  and  Greece ;  on  the  other,  the  Sicilian  Sea,  which 
is  the  road  to  Constantinople.  The  Bohemians,  said  Gringoire, 
were  vassals  of  the  King  of  Algiers,  in  his  quality  of  chief  of 
the  White  Moors.  One  thing  is  certain,  that  la  Esmeralda 
had  come  to  France  while  still  Very  young,  by  way  of  Hun- 
gary. From  all  these  countries  the  young  girl  had  brought 
back  fragments  of  queer  jargons,  songs,  and  strange  ideas, 
which  made  her  language  as  motley  as  her  costume,  half 
Parisian,  half  African.  However,  the  people  of  the  quarters 
which  she  frequented  loved  her  for  her  gayety,  her  daintiness, 
her  lively  manners,  her  dances,  and  her  songs.  She  believed 
herself  to  be  hated,  in  all  the  city,  by  but  two  persons,  of 
whom  she  often  spoke  in  terror:  the  sacked  nun  of  the 
Tour-Roland,  a  villanous  recluse  who  cherished  some  secret 
grudge  against  these  gypsies,  and  who  cursed  the  poor  dancer 
every  time  that  the  latter  passed  before  her  window ;  and  a 
priest,  who  never  met  her  without  casting  at  her  looks  and 
words  which  frightened  her. 

The  mention  of  this  last  circumstance  disturbed  the  arch- 
deacon greatly,  though  Gringoire  paid  no  attention  to  his 


24  NOTRE-DAME. 

perturbation;  to  such  an  extent  had  two  months  sufficed  to 
cause  the  heedless  poet  to  forget  the  singular  details  of  the 
evening  on  which  he  had  met  the  gypsy,  and  the  presence  of 
the  archdeacon  in  it  all.  Otherwise,  the  little  dancer  feared 
nothing ;  she  did  not  tell  fortunes,  which  protected  her 
against  those  trials  for  magic  which  were  so  frequently  insti- 
tuted against  gypsy  women.  And  then,  Gringoire  held  the 
position  of  her  brother,  if  not  of  her  husband.  After  all,  the 
philosopher  endured  this  sort  of  platonic  marriage  very 
patiently.  It  meant  a  shelter  and  bread  at  least.  Every 
morning,  he  set  out  from  the  lair  of  the  thieves,  generally 
with  the  gypsy ;  he  helped  her  make  her  collections  of 
targes  *  and  little  blanks  f  in  the  squares ;  each  evening  he 
returned  to  the  same  roof  with  her,  allowed  her  to  bolt  her- 
self into  her  little  chamber,  and  slept  the  sleep  of  the  just. 
A  very  sweet  existence,  taking  it  all  in  all,  he  said,  and  well 
adapted  to  revery.  And  then,  on  his  soul  and  conscience,  the 
philosopher  was  not  very  sure  that  he  was  madly  in  love  with 
the  gypsy.  He  loved  her  goat  almost  as  dearly.  It  was  a 
charming  animal,  gentle,  intelligent,  clever;  a  learned  goat. 
Nothing  was  more  common  in  the  Middle  Ages  than  these 
learned  animals,  which  amazed  people  greatly,  and  often  led 
their  instructors  to  the  stake.  But  the  witchcraft  of  the  goat 
with  the  golden  hoofs  was  a  very  innocent  species  of  magic. 
Griugoire  explained  them  to  the  archdeacon,  whom  these 
details  seemed  to  interest  deeply.  In  the  majority  of  cases, 
it  was  sufficient  to  present  the  tambourine  to  the  goat  in 
such  or  such  a  manner,  in  order  to  obtain  from  him  the  trick 
desired.  He  had  been  trained  to  this  by  the  gypsy,  who  pos- 
sessed, in  these  delicate  arts,  so  rare  a  talent  that  two  months 
had  sufficed  to  teach  the  goat  to  write,  with  movable  letters, 
the  word  "  Phoebus." 

"  '  Phoebus  ! '  "  said  the  priest ;  "  why  '  Phoebus  '  ?  " 
"  I  know  not,"  replied  Gringoire.     "  Perhaps  it  is  a  word 
which  she  believes  to  be  endowed  with  some  magic  and  secret 
virtue.     She  often  repeats  it  in  a  low  tone  when  she  thinks 
that  she  is  alone." 

*  An  ancient  Burgundian  coin.  t  An  ancient  French  coin. 


A   PRIEST  AND  A   PHILOSOPHER.  25 

"Are  you  sure,"  persisted  Claude,  with  his  penetrating 
glance,  "  that  it  is  only  a  word  and  not  a  name  ?  " 

"  The  name  of  whom  ?  "  said  the  poet. 

"  How  should  I  know  ?  "  said  the  priest. 

"  This  is  what  I  imagine,  messire.  These  Bohemians  are 
something  like  Guebrs,  and  adore  the  sun.  Hence,  Phosbus." 

"  That  does  not  seem  so  clear  to  me  as  to  you,  Master 
Pierre." 

"After  all,  that  does  not  concern  me.  Let  her  mumble  her 
Phoebus  at  her  pleasure.  One  thing  is  certain,  that  Djali  loves 
me  almost  as  much  as  he  does  her." 

"Who  is  Djali?" 

"  The  goat." 

The  archdeacon  dropped  his  chin  into  his  hand,  and  ap- 
peared to  reflect  for  a  moment.  All  at  once  he  turned  abruptly 
to  Gringoire  once  more. 

'•And  do  you  swear  to  me  that  you  have  not  touched 
her  ?  " 

"  Whom  ?  "  said  Gringoire ;  "  the  goat  ?  " 

"  ISTo,  that  woman." 

"  My  wife  ?     I  swear  to  you  that  I  have  not." 

"  You  are  often  alone  with  her  ?  " 

"  A  good  hour  every  evening." 

Dom  Claude  frowned. 

"Oh!  oh!  Solus  cum  sola  non  cogltabuntur  orare  Pater 
Noster" 

"  Upon  my  soul,  I  could  say  the  Pater,  and  the  Ave  Maria, 
and  the  Credo  in  Deum  patrem  omnipotentem  without  her 
paying  any  more  attention  to  me  than  a  chicken  to  a  church." 

"  Swear  to  me,  by  the  body  of  your  mother,"  repeated  the 
archdeacon  violently,  "  that  you  have  not  touched  that  creature 
with  even  the  tip  of  your  finger." 

"  I  will  also  swear  it  by  the  head  of  my  father,  for  the  two 
things  have  more  affinity  between  them.  But,  my  reverend 
master,  permit  me  a  question  in  my  turn." 

"  Speak,  sir." 

"What  concern  is  it  of  yours  ?  " 

The  archdeacon's  pale  face  became  as  crimson  as  the  cheek 


26  NOTRE-DAME. 

of  a  young  girl.  He  remained  for  a  moment  without  answering ; 
then,  with  visible  embarrassment,  — 

"  Listen,  Master  Pierre  Gringoire.  You  are  not  yet  damned, 
so  far  as  I  know.  I  take  an  interest  in  you,  and  wish  you 
well.  Now  the  least  contact  with  that  Egyptian  of  the  demon 
would  make  you  the  vassal  of  Satan.  You  know  that  'tis 
always  the  body  which  ruins  the  soul.  Woe  to  you  if  you 
approach  that  woman !  That  is  all." 

"  I  tried  once,"  said  Gringoire,  scratching  his  ear ;  "  it  was 
the  first  day :  but  I  got  stung." 

"  You  were  so  audacious,  Master  Pierre  ?  "  and  the  priest's 
brow  clouded  over  again. 

"  On  another  occasion,"  continued  the  poet,  with  a  smile,  "  I 
peeped  through  the  keyhole,  before  going  to  bed,  and  I  beheld 
the  most  delicious  dame  in  her  shift  that  ever  made  a  bed 
creak  under  her  bare  foot." 

"  Go  to  the  devil ! "  cried  the  priest,  with  a  terrible  look ; 
and,  giving  the  amazed  Gringoire  a  push  on  the  shoulders,  he 
plunged,  with  long  strides,  under  the  gloomiest  arcades  of  the 
cathedral. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE    BELLS. 

AFTER  the  morning  in  the  pillory,  the  neighbors  of  Notre- 
Dame  thought  they  noticed  that  Quasimodo's  ardor  for  ring- 
ing had  grown  cool.  Formerly,  there  had  been  peals  for 
every  occasion,  long  morning  serenades,  which  lasted  from 
prime  to  compline;  peals  from  the  belfry  for  a  high  mass, 
rich  scales  drawn  over  the  smaller  bells  for  a  wedding,  for  a 
christening,  and  mingling  in  the  air  like  a  rich  embroidery  of 
all  sorts  of  charming  sounds.  The  old  church,  all  vibrating 
and  sonorous,  was  in  a  perpetual  joy  of  bells.  One  was  con- 
stantly conscious  of  the  presence  of  a  spirit  of  noise  and 
caprice,  who  sang  through  all  those  mouths  of  brass.  Now 
that  spirit  seemed  to  have  departed;  the  cathedral  seemed 
gloomy,  and  gladly  remained  silent;  festivals  and  funerals 
had  the  simple  peal,  dry  and  bare,  demanded  by  the  ritual, 
nothing  more.  Of  the  double  noise  which  constitutes  a 
church,  the  organ  within,  the  bell  without,  the  organ  alone 
remained.  One  would  have  said  that  there  was  no  longer  a 
musician  in  the  belfry.  Quasimodo  was  always  there,  never- 
theless ;  what,  then,  had  happened  to  him  ?  Was  it  that  the 
shame  and  despair  of  the  pillory  still  lingered  in  the  bottom 
of  his  heart,  that  the  lashes  of  his  tormentor's  whip  rever- 
berated unendingly  in  his  soul,  and  that  the  sadness  of  such 
treatment  had  wholly  extinguished  in  him  even  his  passion 
for  the  bells  ?  or  was  it  that  Marie  had  a  rival  in  the  heart 
of  the  bellringer  of  ISTotre-Dame,  and  tha,t  the  great  bell  and 

27 


Og  NOTRE-DAME. 

her  fourteen  sisters  were  neglected  for  something  more  amia 
ble  and  more  beautiful  ? 

It  chanced  that,  in  the  year  of  grace  1482,  Annunciation 
Day  fell  on  Tuesday,  the  twenty-fifth  of  March.  That  day 
the  air  was  so  pure  and  light  that  Quasimodo  felt  some  re- 
turning affection  for  his  bells.  He  therefore  ascended  the 
northern  tower  while  the  beadle  below  was  opening  wide  the 
doors  of  the  church,  which  were  then  enormous  panels  of  stout 
wood,  covered  with  leather,  bordered  with  nails  of  gilded  iron, 
and  framed  in  carvings  "  very  artistically  elaborated." 

On  arriving  in  the  lofty  bell  chamber,  Quasimodo  gazed  for 
some  time  at  the  six  bells  and  shook  his  head  sadly,  as  though 
groaning  over  some  foreign  element  which  had  interposed 
itself  in  his  heart  between  them  and  him.  But  when  he  had 
set  them  to  swinging,  when  he  felt  that  cluster  of  bells  mov- 
ing under  his  hand,  when  he  saw,  for  he  did  not  hear  it,  the 
palpitating  octave  ascend  and  descend  that  sonorous  scale,  like 
a  bird  hopping  from  branch  to  branch;  when  the  demon 
Music,  that  demon  who  shakes  a  sparkling  bundle  of  strette, 
trills  and  arpeggios,  had  taken  possession  of  the  poor  deaf 
man,  he  became  happy  once  more,  he  forgot  everything,  and 
his  heart  expanding,  made  his  face  beam. 

He  went  and  came,  he  beat  his  hands  together,  he  ran  from 
rope  to  rope,  he  animated  the  six  singers  with  voice  and  ges- 
ture, like  the  leader  of  an  orchestra  who  is  urging  on  intelli- 
gent musicians. 

"  Go  on,"  said  he,  "  go  on,  go  on,  Gabrielle,  pour  out  all  thy 
noise  into  the  Place,  'tis  a  festival  to-day.  No  laziness,  Thi- 
bauld ;  thou  art  relaxing ;  go  on,  go  on,  then,  art  thou  rusted, 
thou  sluggard  ?  That  is  well !  quick !  quick !  let  not  thy 
clapper  be  seen!  Make  them  all  deaf  like  me.  That's  it, 
Thibauld,  bravely  done !  Guillaume  !  Guillaume !  thou  art 
the  largest,  and  Pasquier  is  the  smallest,  and  Pasquier  does 
best.  Let  us  wager  that  those  who  hear  him  will  understand 
him  better  than  they  understand  thee.  Good!  good!  my 
Gabrielle,  stoutly,  more  stoutly  !  Eh  !  what  are  you  doing  up 
aloft  there,  you  two  Moineaux  (sparrows)  ?  I  do  not  see  you 
making  the  least  little  shred  of  noise,  What  is  the  meaning 


THE  PELLS. 


29 


of  those  beaks  of  copper  which  seem  to  be  gaping  when  they 
should  sing  ?  Come,  work  now,  'tis  the  Feast  of  the  Annun- 
ciation. The  sun  is  fine,  the  chime  must  be  fine  also.  Poor 
Guillaume  !  thou  art  all  out  of  breath,  my  big  fellow ! " 

He  was  wholly  absorbed  in  spurring  on  his  bells,  all  six  of 
which  vied  with  each  other  in  leaping  and  shaking  their  shin- 
ing haunches,  like  a  noisy  team  of  Spanish  mules,  pricked  on 
here  and  there  by  the  apostrophes  of  the  muleteer. 

All  at  once,  on  letting  his  glance  fall  between  the  large 
slate  scales  which  cover  the  perpendicular  wall  of  the  bell 
toAver  at  a  certain  height,  he  beheld  on  the  square  a  young 
girl,  fantastically  dressed,  stop,  spread  out  on  the  ground  a 
carpet,  on  which  a  small  goat  took  up  its  post,  and  a  group  of 
spectators  collect  around  her.  This  sight  suddenly  changed 
the  course  of  his  ideas,  and  congealed  his  enthusiasm  as  a 
breath  of  air  congeals  melted  rosin.  He  halted,  turned  his 
back  to  the  bells,  and  crouched  down  behind  the  projecting 
roof  of  slate,  fixing  upon  the  dancer  that  dreamy,  sweet,  and 
tender  look  which  had  already  astonished  the  archdeacon  on 
one  occasion.  Meanwhile,  the  forgotten  bells  died  away 
abruptly  and  all  together,  to  the  great  disappointment  of  the 
lovers  of  bell  ringing,  who  were  listening  in  good  faith  to  the 
peal  from  above  the  Pont  du  Change,  and  who  went  away 
dumbfounded,  like  a  dog  who  has  been  offered  a  bone  and 
given  a  stone. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


IT  chanced  that  upon  a  fine  morning  in  this  same  month  of 
March,  I  think  it  was  on  Saturday  the  29th,  Saint  Eustache's 
day,  our  young  friend  the  student,  Jehan  Frollo  du  Moulin, 
perceived,  as  he  was  dressing  himself,  that  his  breeches,  which 
contained  his  purse,  gave  out  no  metallic  ring.  "  Poor  purse," 
he  said,  drawing  it  from  his  fob,  "  what  !  not  the  smallest 
parisis  !  how  cruelly  the  dice,  beer-pots,  and  Venus  have  de- 
pleted thee  !  How  empty,  wrinkled,  limp,  thou  art  !  Thou 
resemblest  the  throat  of  a  fury  !  I  ask  you,  Messer  Cicero, 
and  Messer  Seneca,  copies  of  whom,  all  dog's-eared,  I  behold 
scattered  on  the  floor,  what  profits  it  me  to  know,  better  than 
any  governor  of  the  mint,  or  any  Jew  on  the  Pont  aux  Chan- 
geurs,  that  a  golden  crown  stamped  with  a  crown  is  worth 
thirty-five  unzains  of  twenty-five  sous,  and  eight  deniers 
parisis  apiece,  and  that  a  crown  stamped  with  a  crescent  is 
worth  thirty-six  unzains  of  twenty-six  sous,  six  deniers  tour- 
nois  apiece,  if  I  have  not  a  single  wretched  black  liard  to  risk 
on  the  double-six  !  Oh  !  Consul  Cicero  !  this  is  no  calamity 
from  which  one  extricates  one's  self  with  periphrases,  quemad- 
modum,  and  verum  enim  vero  !  " 

He  dressed  himself  sadly.  An  idea  had  occurred  to  him  as 
he  laced  his  boots,  but  he  rejected  it  at  first  ;  nevertheless,  it 
returned,  and  he  put  on  his  waistcoat  wrong  side  out,  an  evi- 

30 


'ANAFKH.  31 

dent  sign  of  violent  internal  combat.  At  last  he  dashed  his 
cap  roughly  on  the  floor,  and  exclaimed :  "  So  much  the  worse ! 
Let  come  of  it  what  may.  I  am  going  to  my  brother!  I 
shall  catch  a  sermon,  but  I  shall  catch  a  crown." 

Then  he  hastily  donned  his  long  jacket  with  furred  half- 
sleeves,  picked  up  his  cap,  and  went  out  like  a  man  driven  to 
desperation. 

He  descended  the  Kue  de  la  Harpe  toward  the  City.  As  he 
passed  the  Kue  de  la  Huchette,  the  odor  of  those  admirable 
spits,  which  were  incessantly  turning,  tickled  his  olfactory 
apparatus,  and  he  bestowed  a  loving  glance  toward  the  Cyclo- 
pean roast,  which  one  day  drew  from  the  Franciscan  friar, 
Calatagirone,  this  pathetic  exclamation :  Veramente,  queste 
rotisserie  sono  cosa  stupenda !  *  But  Jehan  had  not  the 
wherewithal  to  buy  a  breakfast,  and  he  plunged,  with  a  pro- 
found sigh,  under  the  gateway  of  the  Petit-Chatelet,  that 
enormous  double  trefoil  of  massive  towers  which  guarded  the 
entrance  to  the  City. 

He  did  not  even  take  the  trouble  to  cast  a  stone  in  passing, 
as  Avas  the  usage,  at  the  miserable  statue  of  that  Perinet 
Leclerc  who  had  delivered  up  the  Paris  of  Charles  VI.  to  the 
English,  a  crime  which  his  effigy,  its  face  battered  with 
stones  and  soiled  with  mud,  expiated  for  three  centuries  at 
the  corner  of  the  Kue  de  la  Harpe  and  the  Kue  de  Buci,  as  in 
an  eternal  pillory. 

The  Petit-Pont  traversed,  the  Kue  Neuve-Sainte-Genevieve 
crossed,  Jehan  de  Molendino  found  himself  in  front  of  Notre- 
Dame.  Then  indecision  seized  upon  him  once  more,  and  he 
paced  for  several  minutes  round  the  statue  of  M.  Legris,  re- 
peating to  himself  with  anguish  :  "  The  sermon  is  sure,  the 
crown  is  doubtful." 

He  stopped  a  beadle  who  emerged  from  the  cloister,— 
"  Where  is  monsieur  the  archdeacon  of  Josas  ?  " 

"  I  believe  that  he  is  in  his  secret  cell  in  the  tower,"  said 
the  beadle ;  "  I  should  advise  you  not  to  disturb  him  there, 
unless  you  come  from  some  one  like  the  pope  or  monsieur  the 
king.1' 

*  Truly,  these  roastings  are  a  stupendous  thing  ! 


32  NOTRE-DAME. 

Jehan  clapped  his  hands. 

"  Bediable  !  here's  a  magnificent  chance  to  see  the  famous 
sorcery  cell !  " 

This  reflection  having  brought  him  to  a  decision,  he  plunged 
resolutely  into  the  small  black  doorway,  and  began  the 
ascent  of  the  spiral  of  Saint-Gilles,  which  leads  to  the  upper 
stories  of  the  tower.  "  I  am  going  to  see,"  he  said  to  himself 
on  the  way.  "  By  the  ravens  of  the  Holy  Virgin  !  it  must 
needs  be  a  curious  thing,  that  cell  which  my  reverend  brother 
hides  so  secretly  !  '  Tis  said  that  he  lights  up  the  kitchens 
of  hell  there,  and  that  he  cooks  the  philosopher's  stone  there 
over  a  hot  fire.  Bedieu  !  I  care  no  more  for  the  philosopher's 
stone  than  for  a  pebble,  and  I  would  rather  find  over  his  fur- 
nace an  omelette  of  Easter  eggs  and  bacon,  than  the  biggest 
philosopher's  stone  in  the  world.' " 

On  arriving  at  the  gallery  of  slender  columns,  he  took 
breath  for  a  moment,  and  swore  against  the  interminable 
staircase  by  I  know  not  how  many  million  cartloads  of  devils  ; 
then  he  resumed  his  ascent  through  the  narrow  door  of  the 
north  tower,  now  closed  to  the  public.  Several  moments 
after  passing  the  bell  chamber,  he  came  upon  a  little  landing- 
place,  built  in  a  lateral  niche,  and  under  the  vault  of  a  low, 
pointed  door,  whose  enormous  lock  and  strong  iron  bars  he 
was  enabled  to  see  through  a  loophole  pierced  in  the  opposite 
circular  wall  of  the  staircase.  Persons  desirous  of  visiting 
this  door  at  the  present  day  will  recognize  it  by  this  inscrip- 
tion engraved  in  white  letters  on  the  black  wall :  "J'ADOKE 
CORALIE,  1823.  SIGNE  UGEXE."  "  Signe "  stands  in 
the  text. 

"  Ugh !  "  said  the  scholar ;  "  'tis  here,  no  doubt." 

The  key  was  in  the  lock,  the  door  was  very  close  to  him ; 
he  gave  it  a  gentle  push  and  thrust  his  head  through  the 
opening. 

The  reader  cannot  have  failed  to  turn  over  the  admirable 
works  of  Rembrandt,  that  Shakespeare  of  painting.  Amid  so 
many  marvellous  engravings,  there  is  one  etching  in  particu- 
lar, which  is  supposed  to  represent  Doctor  Faust,  and  which 
it  is  impossible  to  contemplate  without  being  dazzled.  It  rep- 


'ANAFKH.  33 

resents  a  gloomy  cell ;  in  the  centre  is  a  table  loaded  with 
hideous  objects ;  skulls,  spheres,  alembics,  compasses,  hiero- 
glyphic parchments.  The  doctor  is  before  this  table  clad 
in  his  large  coat  and  covered  to  the  very  eyebrows  with  his 
furred  cap.  He  is  visible  only  to  his  waist.  He  has  half 
risen  from  his  immense  arm-chair,  his  clenched  fists  rest  on 
the  table,  and  he  is  gazing  with  curiosity  and  terror  at  a  large 
luminous  circle,  formed  of  magic  letters,  which  gleams  from 
the  wall  beyond,  like  the  solar  spectrum  in  a  dark  chamber. 
This  cabalistic  sun  seems  to  tremble  before  the  eye,  and  fills 
the  wan  cell  with  its  mysterious  radiance.  It  is  horrible  and 
it  is  beautiful. 

Something  very  similar  to  Faust's  cell  presented  itself  to 
Jehan's  view,  when  he  ventured  his  head  through  the  half- 
open  door.  It  also  was  a  gloomy  and  sparsely  lighted  retreat. 
There  also  stood  a  large  arm-chair  and  a  large  table,  com- 
passes, alembics,  skeletons  of  animals  suspended  from  the 
ceiling,  a  globe  rolling  on  the  floor,  hippocephali  mingled 
promiscuously  with  drinking  cups,  in  which  quivered  leaves  of 
gold,  skulls  placed  upon  vellum  checkered  with  figures  and 
characters,  huge  manuscripts  piled  up  wide  open,  without 
mercy  on  the  cracking  corners  of  the  parchment;  in  short,  all 
the  rubbish  of  science,  and  everywhere  on  this  confusion  dust 
and  spiders'  webs ;  but  there  was  no  circle  of  luminous  let- 
ters, no  doctor  in  an  ecstasy  contemplating  the  flaming  vision, 
as  the  eagle  gazes  upon  the  sun. 

Nevertheless,  the  cell  was  not  deserted.  A  man  Avas  seated 
in  the  arm-chair,  and  bending  over  the  table.  Jehan,  to  whom 
his  back  was  turned,  could  see  only  his  shoulders  and  the 
back  of  his  skull ;  but  he  had  no  difficulty  in  recognizing  that 
bald  head,  which  nature  had  provided  with  an  eternal  tonsure, 
as  though  desirous  of  marking,  by  this  external  symbol,  the 
archdeacon's  irresistible  clerical  vocation. 

Jehan  accordingly  recognized  his  brother;  but  the  door 
had  been  opened  so  softly,  that  nothing  warned  Dom  Claude  of 
his  presence.  The  inquisitive  scholar  took  advantage  of  this 
circumstance  to  examine  the  cell  for  a  few  moments  at  his 
leisure.  A  large  furnace,  which  he  had  not  at  first  observed, 


34  NOTRE-DAXE. 

stood  to  the  left  of  the  arm-chair,  beneath  the  window.  The 
ray  of  light  which  penetrated  through  this  aperture  made  its 
way  through  a  spider's  circular  web,  which  tastefully  inscribed 
its  delicate  rose  in  the  arch  of  the  window,  and  in  the  centre 
of  which  the  insect  architect  hung  motionless,  like  the  hub 
of  this  wheel  of  lace.  Upon  the  furnace  were  accumulated 
in  disorder,  all  sorts  of  vases,  earthenware  bottles,  glass 
retorts,  and  mattresses  of  charcoal.  Jehan  observed,  with  a  1 
sigh,  that  there  was  no  frying-pan.  "  How  cold  the  kitchen 
utensils  are  ! "  he  said  to  himself. 

In  fact,  there  was  no  fire  in  the  furnace,  and  it  seemed  as 
though  none  had  been  lighted  for  a  long  time.  A  glass  mask, 
which  Jehan  noticed  among  the  utensils  of  alchemy,  and 
which  served  no  doubt,  to  protect  the  archdeacon's  face  when 
he  was  working  over  some  substance  to  be  dreaded,  lay  in  one 
corner  covered  with  dust  and  apparently  forgotten.  Beside  it 
lay  a  pair  of  bellows  no  less  dusty,  the  upper  side  of  which 
bore  this  inscription  incrusted  in  copper  letters :  SPI 1 1  \ 
SPERA. 

Other  inscriptions  were  written,  in   accordance  with  tiuj 
fashion  of  the  hermetics,  in  great  numbers  on  the  walls ;  some 
traced  with  ink,  others  engraved  with  a  metal  point.     There 
were,  moreover,  Gothic  letters,  Hebrew  letters,  Greek  letters. 
and  Roman  letters,  pell-mell ;  the  inscriptions  overflowed  at 
haphazard,  on  top  of  each  other,  the  more  recent  effacing  the 
more  ancient,  and  all   entangled  with  each  other,  like  the    ; 
branches  in  a  thicket,  like  pikes  in  an  affray.     It  was,  in  fact, 
a  strangely  confused  mingling  of  all  human  philosophies,  all 
reveries,  all  human  wisdom.     Here  and  there  one  shone  out 
from  among  the  rest  like  a  banner  among  lance  heads.     Gen-    • 
erally,  it  was  a  brief  Greek  or  Roman  device,  such  as  the   ] 
Middle  Ages  knew  so  well  how  to  formulate.  —  Unde  ?   Inde  ?    '.. 
—  Homo  homini  monstrum  —  Astra,  castra,  women,  numen.— 
Miyu  @t8llortfUfa  x«xor.  —  Sapere  aude.  Fiat  ubi  vult  —  etc.; 
sometimes  a  word  devoid  of  all  apparent  sense,  '.ivayxoffc^iu, 
which  possibly  contained  a  bitter  allusion  to  the  regime  of  the  j 
cloister;    sometimes   a   simple   maxim   of   clerical   discipline 
formulated  in  a  regular  hexameter :   Ca-lestem  dominum  terres- 


'ANAFKU. 


35 


trem  dicite  domnum.  There  was  also  Hebrew  jargon,  of  which 
Jehan,  who  as  yet  knew  but  little  Greek,  understood  noth- 
ing; and  all  were  traversed  in  every  direction  by  stars,  by 
figures  of  men  or  animals,  and  by  intersecting  triangles ;  and 
this  contributed  not  a  little  to  make  the  scrawled  wall  of  the 
cell  resemble  a  sheet  of  paper  over  which  a  monkey  had 
drawn  back  and  forth  a  pen  filled  with  ink. 

The  whole  chamber,  moreover,  presented  a  general  aspect 
of  abandonment  and  dilapidation ;  and  the  bad  state  of  the 
utensils  induced  the  supposition  that  their  owner  had  long 
been  distracted  from  his  labors  by  other  preoccupations. 

Meanwhile,  this  master,  bent  over  a  vast  manuscript,  orna- 
mented with  fantastical  illustrations,  appeared  to  be  tor- 
mented by  an  idea  which  incessantly  mingled  with  his  medi- 
tations. That  at  least  was  Jehan's  idea,  when  he  heard  him 
exclaim,  with  the  thoughtful  breaks  of  a  dreamer  thinking 
aloud,  — 

"  Yes,  Manou  said  it,  and  Zoroaster  taught  it !  the  sun  is 
born  from  fire,  the  moon  from  the  sun ;  fire  is  the  soul  of  the 
universe ;  its  elementary  atoms  pour  forth  and  flow  inces- 
santly upon  the  world  through  infinite  channels!  At  the 
point  where  these  currents  intersect  each  other  in  the 
heavens,  they  produce  light;  at  their  points  of  intersection 
on  earth,  they  produce  gold.  Light,  gold;  the  same  thing! 
From  fire  to  the  concrete  state.  The  difference  between  the 
visible  and  the  palpable,  between  the  fluid  and  the  solid  in 
the  same  substance,  between  water  and  ice,  nothing  more. 
These  are  no  dreams  ;  it  is  the  general  law  of  nature.  But 
what  is  one  to  do  in  order  to  extract  from  science  the  secret 
of  this  general  law  ?  What !  this  light  which  inundates  my 
hand  is  gold !  These  same  atoms  dilated  in  accordance  with  a 
certain  law  need  only  be  condensed  in  accordance  with  an- 
other law.  How  is  it  to  be  done  ?  Some  have  fancied  by 
burying  a  ray  of  sunlight,  Averroe's,  —  yes,  'tis  Averroes,  - 
Averroe's  buried  one  under  the  first  pillar  on  the  left  of  the 
sanctuary  of  the  Koran,  in  the  great  Mahometan  mosque  of 
Cordova ;  but  the  vault  cannot  be  opened  for  the  purpose  of 
ascertaining  whether  the  operation  has  succeeded,  until  after 
the  lapse  of  eight  thousand  years. 


36  NOTBE-DANE. 

"The  devil ! "  said  Jehan,  to  himself,  "  'tis  a  long  while  to 
wait  for  a  crown  ! " 

"Others  have  thought,"  continued  the  dreamy  archdeacon, 
"that  it  would  be  better  worth  while  to  operate  upon  a 
ray  of  Sirius.  'But  'tis  exceeding  hard  to  obtain  this  ray 
pure,  because  of  the  simultaneous  presence  of  other  stars 
whose  rays  mingle  with  it.  Flamel  esteemed  it  more  simple 
to  operate  upon  terrestrial  fire.  Flamel !  there's  predestina- 
tion in  the  name !  Flamma  !  yes,  fire.  All  lies  there.  The 
diamond  is  contained  in  the  carbon,  gold  is  in  the  fire.  But 
how  to  extract  it  ?  Magistri  affirms  that  there  are  certain 
feminine  names,  which  possess  a  charm  so  sweet  and  mysteri- 
ous, that  it  suffices  to  pronounce  them  during  the  operation. 
Let  us  read  what  Manon  says  on  the  matter :  '  Where  women 
are  honored,  the  divinities  are  rejoiced ;  where  they  are  de- 
spised, it  is  useless  to  pray  to  God.  The  mouth  of  a  woman 
is  constantly  pure  ;  it  is  a  running  water,  it  is  a  ray  of  sun- 
light. The  name  of  a  woman  should  be  agreeable,  sweet, 
fanciful;  it  should  end  in  long  vowels,  and  resemble  words 
of  benediction.'  Yes,  the  sage  is  right;  in  truth,  Maria, 
Sophia,  la  Esmeral  —  Damnation !  always  that  thought ! " 

And  he  closed  the  book  violently. 

He  passed  his  hand  over  his  brow,  as  though  to  brush  away 
the  idea  which  assailed  him ;  then  he  took  from  the  table  a 
nail  and  a  small  hammer,  whose  handle  was  curiously  painted 
with  cabalistic  letters. 

"  For  some  time,"  he  said  with  a  bitter  smile,  "  I  have  failed 
in  all  my  experiments  !  one  fixed  idea  possesses  me,  and  sears 
my  brain  like  fire.  I  have  not  even  been  able  to  discover  the 
secret  of  Cassiodorus,  whose  lamp  burned  without  wick  and 
without  oil.  A  simple  matter,  nevertheless  —  " 

"  The  deuce  ! "  muttered  Jehan  in  his  beard. 

"Hence,"  continued  the  priest,  "one  wretched  thought  is 
sufficient  to  render  a  man  weak  and  beside  himself !  Oh  ! 
how  Claude  Pernelle  would  laugh  at  me.  She  who  could  not 
turn  Nicholas  Flamel  aside,  for  one  moment,  from  his  pur- 
suit of  the  great  work  !  What !  I  hold  in  my  hand  the  magic 
hammer  of  Zechiele !  at  every  blow  dealt  by  the  formidable 


'ANAFKH.  37 

raobi,  from  the  depths  of  his  cell,  upon  this  nail,  that  one  of 
his  enemies  whom  he  had  condemned,  were  he  a  thousand 
leagues  away,  was  buried  a  cubit  deep  in  the  earth  which 
swallowed  him.  The  King  of  France  himself,  in  consequence 
of  once  having  inconsiderately  knocked  at  the  door  of  the 
thermaturgist,  sank  to  the  knees  through  the  pavement  of 
his  own  Paris.  This  took  place  three  centuries  ago.  Well  ! 
I  possess  the  hammer  and  the  nail,  and  in  my  hands  they  are 
utensils  no  more  formidable  than  a  club  in  the  hands  of  a 
maker  of  edge  tools.  And  yet  all  that  is  required  is  to  find 
the  magic  word  which  Zechiele  pronounced  when  he  struck 
his  nail." 

"  What  nonsense  !  "  thought  Jehan. 

"  Let  us  see,  let  us  try  !  "  resumed  the  archdeacon  briskly. 
"Were  I  to  succeed,  I  should  behold  the  blue  spark  flash 
from  the  head  of  the  nail.  Emen-Hetan  !  Emen-Hetan  ! 
That's  not  it.  Sigeani  !  Sigeani  !  May  this  nail  open  the 
tomb  to  any  one  who  bears  the  name  of  Phcebus  !  A  curse 
upon  it  !  Always  and  eternally  the  same  idea  !  " 

And  he  flung  away  the  hammer  in  a  rage.  Then  he  sank 
down  so  deeply  on  the  arm-chair  and  the  table,  that  Jehan 
lost  him  from  view  behind  the  great  pile  of  manuscripts.  For 
the  space  of  several  minutes,  all  that  he  saw  was  his  fist  con- 
vulsively clenched  on  a  book.  Suddenly,  Dom  Claude  sprang 
up,  seized  a  compass  and  engraved  in  silence  upon  the  wall  in 
capital  letters,  this  Greek  word 


"  My  brother  is  mad,"  said  Jehan  to  himself  ;  "  it  would 
1-ave  been  far  more  simple  to  write  Fatum,  every  one  is  not 
obliged  to  know  Greek." 

The  archdeacon  returned  and  seated  himself  in  his  arm- 
chair, and  placed  his  head  on  both  his  hands,  as  a  sick  man 
does,  whose  head  is  heavy  and  burning. 

The  student  watched  his  brother  with  surprise.  He  did  not 
know,  he  who  wore  his  heart  on  his  sleeve,  he  who  observed 
only  the  good  old  law  of  Nature  in  the  world,  he  who  allowed 
his  passions  to  follow  their  inclinations,  and  in  whom  the  lake 


38  NOTRE-DA31E. 

of  great  emotions  was  always  dry,  so  freely  did  he  let  it  off 
each  day  by  fresh  drains,  —  he  did  not  know  with  what  fury 
the  sea  of  human  passions  ferments  and  boils  when  all  egress 
is  denied  to  it,  how  it  accumulates,  how  it  swells,  how  it  over- 
flows, how  it  hollows  out  the  heart ;  how  it  breaks  in  inward 
sobs,  and  dull  convulsions,  until  it  has  rent  its  dikes  and 
burst  its  bed.  The  austere  and  glacial  envelope  of  Claude 
Frollo,  that  cold  surface  of  steep  and  inaccessible  virtue, 
had  always  deceived  Jehan.  The  merry  scholar  had  never 
dreamed  that  there  was  boiling  lava,  furious  and  profound, 
beneath  the  snowy  brow  of  JEtnsL 

We  do  not  know  whether  he  suddenly  became  conscious  of 
these  things ;  but,  giddy  as  he  was,  he  understood  that  he  had 
seen  what  he  ought  not  to  have  seen,  that  he  had  just  sur- 
prised the  soul  of  his  elder  brother  in  one  of  its  most  secret 
altitudes,  and  that  Claude  must  not  be  allowed  to  know  it. 
Seeing  that  the  archdeacon  had  fallen  back  into  his  former 
immobility,  he  withdrew  his  head  very  softly,  and  made  some 
noise  with  his  feet  outside  the  door,  like  a  person  who  has 
just  arrived  and  is  giving  warning  of  his  approach. 

"Enter!"  cried  the  archdeacon,  from  the  interior  of  his 
cell;  "I  was  expecting  you.  I  left  the  door  unlocked  ex- 
pressly ;  enter  Master  Jacques  I " 

The  scholar  entered  boldly.  The  archdeacon,  who  was  very 
much  embarrassed  by  such  a  visit  in  such  a  place,  trembled 
in  his  arm-chair.  "  What !  'tis  you,  Jehan  ?  " 

"  'Tis  a  J,  all  the  same,"  said  the  scholar,  with  his  ruddy, 
merry,  and  audacious  face. 

Dora  Claude's  visage  had  resumed  its  severe  expression. 

"  What  are  you  come  for  ?  " 

"  Brother,"  replied  the  scholar,  making  an  effort  to  assume 
a  decent,  pitiful,  and  modest  mien,  and  twirling  his  cap  in  his 
hands  with  an  innocent  air  ;  "  I  am  come  to  ask  of  you  —  " 

"  What  ?  " 

"  A  little  lecture  on  morality,  of  which  I  stand  greatly  in 
need,"  Jehan  did  not  dare  to  add  aloud,  — "  and  a  little  money 
of  which  I  arn  in  still  greater  need."  This  last  member  of 
his  phrase  remained  unuttered. 


'AN^FKH. 


39 


"Monsieur,"  said  the  archdeacon,  in  a  cold  tone,  "I  am 
greatly  displeased  with  you." 

"  Alas ! "  sighed  the  scholar. 

Dom  Claude  made  his  arm-chair  describe  a  quarter  circle, 
and  gazed  intently  at  Jehan. 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you." 

This  was  a  formidable  exordium.  Jehan  braced  himself 
for  a  rough  encounter. 

"  Jehan,  complaints  are  brought  me  about  you  every  day. 
What  affray  was  that  in  which  you  bruised  with  a  cudgel  a 
little  vicomte,  Albert  de  Kamonchamp  ?  " 

"  Oh ! "  said  Jehan,  "  a  vast  thing  that ! .  A  malicious  page 
amused  himself  by  splashing  the  scholars,  by  making  his 
horse  gallop  through  the  mire  ! " 

"  Who,"  pursued  the  archdeacon,  "  is  that  Mahiet  Fargel, 
whose  gown  you  have  torn?  Tunicam  dechiraverunt,  saith 
the  complaint." 

"  Ah  bah  !  a  wretched  cap  of  a  Montaigu !     Isn't  that  it  ?  " 

"  The  complaint  says  tunicam  and  not  cappettam.  Do  you 
know  Latin  ?  " 

Jehan  did  not  reply. 

"Yes,"  pursued  the  priest  shaking  his  head,  "That  is  the 
state  of  learning  and  letters  at  the  present  day.  The  Latin 
tongue  is  hardly  understood,  Syriac  is  unknown,  Greek  so 
odious  that  'tis  accounted  no  ignorance  in  the  most  learned  to 
skip  a  Greek  word  without  reading  it,  and  to  say ,  '  Grcecum 
est  non  legitur.' " 

The  scholar  raised  his  eyes  boldly.  "  Monsieur  my  brother, 
doth  it  please  you  that  I  shall  explain  in  good  French  vernac- 
ular that  Greek  word  which  is  written  yonder  on  the  wall  ?  " 

"  What  word  ?  " 


A  slight  flush  spread  over  the  cheeks  of  the  priest  with 
their  high  bones,  like  the  puff  of  smoke  which  announces  on 
the  outside  the  secret  commotions  of  a  volcano.  The  student 
hardly  noticed  it. 

"  Well,  Jehan,"  stammered  the  elder  brother  with  an  effort, 
"  What  is  the  meaning  of  yonder  word  ?  " 


40  NOTRE-DAME. 

"  FATE." 

Dom  Claude  turned  pale  again,  and  the  scholar  pursued 
carelessly. 

"And  that  word  below  it,  graved  by  the  same  hand, 
\4v&yv£la,  signifies  'impurity.'  You  see  that  people  do  know 
their  Greek." 

And  the  archdeacon  remained  silent.  This  Greek  lesson 
had  rendered  him  thoughtful. 

Master  Jehan,  who  possessed  all  the  artful  ways  of  a  spoiled 
child,  judged  that  the  moment  was  a  favorable  one  in  which 
to  risk  his  request.  Accordingly,  he  assumed  an  extremely 
soft  tone  and  began,  — 

"  My  good  brother,  do  you  hate  me  to  such  a  degree  as  to 
look  savagely  upon  me  because  of  a  few  mischievous  cuffs  and 
blows  distributed  in  a  fair  war  to  a  pack  of  lads  and  brats, 
quibusdam  marmosetis  ?  You  see,  good  Brother  Claude,  that 
people  know  their  Latin." 

But  all  this  caressing  hypocrisy  did  not  have  its  usual  effect 
on  the  severe  elder  brother.  Cerberus  did  not  bite  at  the 
honey  cake.  The  archdeacon's  brow  did  not  lose  a  single 
wrinkle. 

"  What  are  you  driving  at  ?  "  he  said  dryly. 

"  Well,  in  point  of  fact,  this ! "  replied  Jehan  bravely,  "  I 
stand  in  need  of  money." 

At  this  audacious  declaration,  the  archdeacon's  visage 
assumed  a  thoroughly  pedagogical  and  paternal  expression. 

"  You  know,  Monsieur  Jehan,  that  our  fief  of  Tirechappe, 
putting  the  direct  taxes  and  the  rents  of  the  nine  and  twenty 
houses  in  a  block,  yields  only  nine  and  thirty  livres,  eleven 
sous,  six  deniers,  Parisian.  It  is  one  half  more  than  in  the 
time  of  the  brothers  Paclet,  but  it  is  not  much." 

"  I  need  money,"  said  Jehan  stoically. 

"  You  know  that  the  official  has  decided  that  our  twenty -one 
houses  should  be  moved  full  into  the  fief  of  the  Bishopric, 
and  that  we  could  redeem  this  homage  only  by  paying  the 
reverend  bishop  two  marks  of  silver  gilt  of  the  price  of  six 
livres  parisis.  Now,  these  two  marks  I  have  not  yet  been 
able  to  get  together.  You  know  it." 


'ANAFKH.  41 

"  I  know  that  I  stand  in  need  of  money,"  repeated  Jehan 
for  the  third  time. 

"  And  what  are  you  going  to  do  with  it  ?  " 

This  question  caused  a  flash  of  hope  to  gleam  before  Jehan's 
eyes.  He  resumed  his  dainty,  caressing  air. 

"  Stay,  dear  Brother  Claude,  I  should  not  come  to  you,  with 
any  evil  motive.  There  is  no  intention  of  cutting  a  dash  in 
the  taverns  with  your  unzains,  and  of  strutting  about  the 
streets  of  Paris  in  a  caparison  of  gold  brocade,  with  a  lackey, 
cum  meo  laquasio.  No,  brother,  'tis  for  a  good  work." 

"  What  good  work  ?  "  demanded  Claude,  somewhat  surprised. 

"  Two  of  my  friends  wish  to  purchase  an  outfit  for  the 
infant  of  a  poor  Haudriette  widow.  It  is  a  charity.  It  will 
cost  three  florins,  and  I  should  like  to  contribute  to  it." 

"  What  are  names  of  your  two  friends  ?  " 

"  Pierre  1'Assommeur  and  Baptiste  Croque-Oison."  * 

"  Hum,"  said  the  archdeacon ;  "  those  are  names  as  fit  for 
a  good  work  as  a  catapult  for  the  chief  altar." 

It  is  certain  that  Jehan  had  made  a  very  bad  choice  of 
names  for  his  two  friends.  He  realized  it  too  late. 

"  And  then,"  pursued  the  sagacious  Claude,  "  what  sort  of 
an  infant's  outfit  is  it  that  is  to  cost  three  florins,  and  that  for 
the  child  of  a  Haudriette  ?  Since  when  have  the  Haudriette 
widows  taken  to  having  babes  in  swaddling-clothes  ?  " 

Jehan  broke  the  ice  once  more. 

"  Eh,  well !  yes !  I  need  money  in  order  to  go  and  see 
Isabeau  la  Thierrye  to-night ;  in  the  Val-d'  Amour !  " 

"  Impure  wretch ! "  exclaimed  the  priest. 

"  'Jvuyveta  \ "  said  Jehan. 

This  quotation,  which  the  scholar  borrowed  with  malice, 
perchance,  from  the  wall  of  the  cell,  produced  a  singular 
effect  on  the  archdeacon.  He  bit  his  lips  and  his  wrath  was 
drowned  in  a  crimson  flush. 

"Begone,"  he  said  to  Jehan.     "I  am  expecting  some  one." 

The  scholar  made  one  more  effort. 

"  Brother  Claude,  give  me  at  least  one  little  parisis  to  buy 
something  to  eat." 

*  Peter  the  Slaughterer  ;  and  Baptist  Crack-Gosling. 


42  NOTRE-DANE. 

"  How  far  have  you  gone  in  the  Decretals  of  Gratian  ?  " 
demanded  Doin  Claude. 

"  I  have  lost  my  copy  books. 

"  Where  are  you  in  your  Latin  humanities  ?  " 

"  My  copy  of  Horace  has  been  stolen." 

"  Where  are  you  in  Aristotle  ?  " 

"  I'  faith !  brother  what  father  of  the  church  is  it,  who  says 
that  the  errors  of  heretics  have  always  had  for  their  lurking 
place  the  thickets  of  Aristotle's  metaphysics  ?  A  plague  on 
Aristotle !  I  care  not  to  tear  my  religion  on  his  meta- 
physics." 

"  Young  man,"  resumed  the  archdeacon,  "  at  the  king's  last 
entry,  there  was  a  young  gentleman,  named  Philippe  de  Com- 
ines,  who  wore  embroidered  on  the  housings  of  his  horse  this 
device,  upon  which  I  counsel  you  to  meditate  :  Qui  non  lalomt, 
non  manducet." 

The  scholar  remained  silent  for  a  moment,  with  his  finger 
in  his  ear,  his  eyes  on  the  ground,  and  a  discomfited  mien. 

All  at  once  he  turned  round  to  Claude  with  the  agile  quick- 
ness of  a  wagtail. 

"So,  my  good  brother,  you  refuse  me  a  sou  parisis,  where- 
with to  buy  a  crust  at  a  baker's  shop  ?" 

"  Qui  non  laborat,  non  manducet." 

At  this  response  of  the  inflexible  archdeacon,  Jehan  hid  his 
head  in  his  hands,  like  a  woman  sobbing,  and  exclaimed  with 
an  expression  of  despair  :  "'Oioiojojoioi." 

"  What  is  the  meaning  of  this,  sir  ?  "  demanded  Claude, 
surprised  at  this  freak. 

"  What  indeed  !  "  said  the  scholar  ;  and  he  lifted  to  Claude 
his  impudent  eyes  into  which  he  had  just  thrust  his  fists  in 
order  to  communicate  to  them  the  redness  of  tears ;  "  'tis 
Greek  !  'tis  an  anapaest  of  vEschylus  which  expresses  grief 
perfectly." 

And  here  he  burst  into  a  laugh  so  droll  and  violent  that  it 
made  the  archdeacon  smile.  It  was  Claude's  fault,  in  fact : 
why  had  he  so  spoiled  that  child  ? 

"  Oh !  good  Brother  Claude,"  resumed  Jehan,  emboldened  by 
this  smile,  "  look  at  my  worn  out  boots.  Is  there  a  cothurnus 


'ANAFKH.  43 

in  the  world  more  tragic  than  these  boots,  whose  soles  are 
hanging  out  their  tongues  ?  " 

The  archdeacon  promptly  returned  to  his  original  severity. 

"  I  will  send  you  some  new  boots,  but  no  money." 

"Only  a  poor  little  parisis,  brother,"  continued  the  sup- 
pliant Jehan.  "  I  will  learn  Gratian  by  heart,  I  will  believe 
firmly  in  God,  I  will  be  a  regular  Pythagoras  of  science  and 
virtue.  But  one  little  parisis,  in  mercy !  Would  you  have 
famine  bite  me  with  its  jaws  which  are  gaping  in  front  of  me, 
blacker,  deeper,  and  more  noisome  than  a  Tartarus  or  the  nose 
of  a  monk  ?  " 

Dom  Claude  shook  his  wrinkled  head :  "  Qui  non  laborat  —  " 

Jehan  did  not  allow  him  to  finish. 

"  Well,"  he  exclaimed,  "to  the  devil  then !  Long  live  joy !  I 
will  live  in  the  tavern,  I  will  fight,  I  will  break  pots  and  I  will 
go  and  see  the  wenches."  And  thereupon,  he  hurled  his  cap  at 
the  wall,  and  snapped  his  fingers  like  castanets. 

The  archdeacon  surveyed  him  with  a  gloomy  air. 

"Jehan,  you  have  no  soul." 

"  In  that  case,  according  to  Epicurius,  I  lack  a  something 
made  of  another  something  which  has  no  name." 

"  Jehan,  you  must  think  seriously  of  amending  your  ways." 

"  Oh,  come  now,"  cried  the  student,  gazing  in  turn  at  his 
brother  and  the  alembics  on  the  furnace,  "  everything  is  pre- 
posterous here,  both  ideas  and  bottles  ! " 

"  Jehan,  you  are  on  a  very  slippery  downward  road.  Do 
you  know  whither  you  are  going  ?  " 

"To  the  wine-shop,"  said  Jehan. 

"  The  wine-shop  leads  to  the  pillory." 

"  'Tis  as  good  a  lantern  as  any  other,  and  perchance  with 
that  one,  Diogenes  would  have  found  his  man." 

"  The  pillory  leads  to  the  gallows." 

"  The  gallows  is  a  balance  which  has  a  man  at  one  end  and 
the  whole  earth  at  the  other.  'Tis  fine  to  be  the  man." 

"  The  gallows  leads  to  hell." 

"  'Tis  a  big  fire." 

"  Jehan,  Jehan,  the  end  will  be  bad." 

"  The  beginning  will  have  been  good." 


44 


NOTRE-DAHE. 


At  that  moment,  the  sound  of  a  footstep  was  heard  on  the 
staircase. 

"  Silence  ! "  said  the  archdeacon,  laying  his  finger  on  his 
mouth,  "here  is  Master  Jacques.  Listen,  Jehan,"  he  added, 
in  a  low  voice ;  "  have  a  care  never  to  speak  of  what  you  shall 
have  seen  or  heard  here.  Hide  yourself  quickly  under  the 
furnace,  and  do  not  breathe." 

The  scholar  concealed  himself;  just  then  a  happy  idea  oc- 
curred to  him.  « 

"  By  the  way,  Brother  Claude,  a  florin  for  not  breathing." 

"  Silence  !     I  promise." 

"  You  must  give  it  to  me." 

"  Take  it,  then  ! "  said  the  archdeacon  angrily,  flinging  his 
purse  at  him. 

Jehan  darted  under  the  furnace  again,  and  the  door  opened. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE   TWO    MEN   CLOTHED    IN    BLACK. 

THE  personage  who  entered  wore  a  black  gown  and  a  gloomy 
mien.  The  first  point  which  struck  the  eye  of  our  Jehan 
(who,  as  the  reader  will  readily  surmise,  had  ensconced  him- 
self in  his  nook  in  such  a  manner  as  to  enable  him  to  see 
and  hear  everything  at  his  good  pleasure)  was  the  perfect  sad- 
ness of  the  garments  and  the  visage  of  this  new-comer.  There 
was,  nevertheless,  some  sweetness  diffused  over  that  face,  but 
it  was  the  sweetness  of  a  cat  or  a  judge,  an  affected,  treacher- 
ous sweetness.  He  was  very  gray  and  wrinkled,  and  not  far 
from  his  sixtieth  year,  his  eyes  blinked,  his  eyebrows  were 
white,  his  lip  pendulous,  and  his  hands  large.  When  Jehan 
saw  that  it  was  only  this,  that  is  to  say,  no  doubt  a  physician 
or  a  magistrate,  and  that  this  man  had  a  nose  very  far  from 
his  mouth,  a  sign  of  stupidity,  he  nestled  down  in  his  hole, 
in  despair  at  being  obliged  to  pass  an  indefinite  time  in  such 
an  uncomfortable  attitude,  and  in  such  bad  company. 

The  archdeacon,  in  the  meantime,  had  not  even  risen  to  re- 
ceive this  personage.  He  had  made  the  latter  a  sign  to  seat 
himself  on  a  stool  near  the  door,  and,  after  several  moments 
of  a  silence  which  appeared  to  be  a  continuation  of  a  preceding 
meditation,  he  said  to  him  in  a  rather  patronizing  way. 
"  Good  day,  Master  Jacques." 

"  Greeting,  master,"  replied  the  man  in  black. 

45 


46  NOTRE-DAME. 

There  was  in  the  two  ways  in  which  "Master  Jacques" 
was  pronounced  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  "  master  "  by  pre- 
eminence on  the  other,  the  difference  between  monseigneur 
and  monsieur,  between  domine  and  domne.  It  was  evidently 
the  meeting  of  a  teacher  and  a  disciple. 

"  Well ! "  resumed  the  archdeacon,  after  a  fresh  silence 
which  Master  Jacques  took  good  care  not  to  disturb,  "how 
are  you  succeeding  ?  " 

"  Alas !  master,"  said  the  other,  with  a  sad  smile,  "  I  am 
still  seeking  the  stone.  Plenty  of  ashes.  But  not  a  spark  of 
gold." 

Dom  Claude  made  a  gesture  of  impatience.  "I  am  not 
talking  to  you  of  that,  Master  Jacques  Charmolue,  but  of  the 
trial  of  your  magician.  Is  it  not  Marc  Cenaine  that  you  call 
him  ?  the  butler  of  the  Court  of  Accounts  ?  Does  he  con- 
fess his  witchcraft  ?  Have  you  been  successful  with  the 
torture  ?  " 

"  Alas !  no,"  replied  Master  Jacques,  still  with  his  sad 
smile  ;  "we  have  not  that  consolation.  That  man  is  a  stone^ 
we  might  have  him  boiled  in  the  Marche  aux  Pourceaux,  before 
he  would  say  anything.  Nevertheless,  we  are  sparing  nothing 
for  the  sake  of  getting  at  the  truth  ;  he  is  already  thoroughly 
dislocated,  we  are  applying  all  the  herbs  of  Saint  John's  day ; 
as  saith  the  old  comedian  Plautus,  — 

'  Advorsum  stimuloa,  laminas,  crucesque,  compedesque, 
Nercos,  catenas,  carceres,  numellas,  pedicas,  boias.' 

Nothing  answers ;  that  man  is  terrible.     I  am  at  my  wit's  end 
over  him." 

"  You  have  found  nothing  new  in  his  house  ?  " 
"  I'  faith,  yes,"  said  Master  Jacques,  fumbling  in  his  pouch ; 
"this  parchment.  There  are  words  in  it  which  we  cannot 
comprehend.  The  criminal  advocate,  Monsieur  Philippe 
Lheulier,  nevertheless,  knows  a  little  Hebrew,  which  he 
learned  in  that  matter  of  the  Jews  of  the  Rue  Kantersten,  at 
Brussels." 

So  saying,  Master  Jacques  unrolled  a  parchment.  "  Give  it 
here,"  said  the  archdeacon.  And  casting  his  eyes  upon  this 


THE  TWO  MEN  CLOTHED  IN  BLACK.  47 

writing:  "Pure  magic,  Master  Jacques!"  he  exclaimed. 
" '  Emen-Hetan ! '  "Tis  the  cry  of  the  vampires  when  they 
arrive  at  the  witches'  sabbath.  Per  ipsum,  et  cum  ipso,  et  in 
ipso!  'Tis  the  command  which  chains  the  devil  in  hell. 
Hax,  pax,  max  !  that  refers  to  medicine.  A  formula  against 
the  bite  of  mad  dogs.  Master  Jacques !  you  are  procurator 
to  the  king  iu  the  Ecclesiastical  Courts :  this  parchment  is 
abominable." 

"We  will  put  the  man  to  the  torture  once  more.  Here 
again,"  added  Master  Jacques,  fumbling  afresh  in  his  pouch, 
"  is  something  that  we  have  found  at  Marc  Cenaine's  house." 

It  was  a  vessel  belonging  to  the  same  family  as  those  which 
covered  Dom  Claude's  furnace. 

"  Ah !  "  said  the  archdeacon,  "  a  crucible  for  alchemy." 

"  I  will  confess  to  you,"  continued  Master  Jacques,  with  his 
timid  and  awkward  smile,  "that  I  have  tried  it  over  the 
furnace,  but  I  have  succeeded  no  better  than  with  my  own." 

The  archdeacon  began  an  examination  of  the  vessel. 
"  What  has  he  engraved  on  his  crucible  ?  Och !  och !  the 
word  which  expels  fleas !  That  Marc  Cenaine  is  an  ignora- 
mus !  I  verily  believe  that  you  will  never  make  gold  with 
this  !  'Tis  good  to  set  in  your  bedroom  in  summer  and  that  is 
all ! " 

"  Since  we  are  talking  about  errors,"  said  the  king's  procu- 
rator, "  I  have  just  been  studying  the  figures  on  the  portal 
below  before  ascending  hither ;  is  your  reverence  quite  sure 
that  the  opening  of  the  work  of  physics  is  there  portrayed 
on  the  side  towards  the  Hotel-Dieu,  and  that  among  the  seven 
nude  figures  which  stand  at  the  feet  of  Notre-Dame,  that 
which  has  wings  on  his  heels  is  Mercurius  ?  " 

"Yes,"  replied  the  priest;  "'tis  Augustin  Nypho  who 
writes  it,  that  Italian  doctor  who  had  a  bearded  demon  who 
acquainted  him  with  all  things.  However,  Ave  will  descend, 
and  I  will  explain  it  to  you  with  the  text  before  us." 

"Thanks,  master,"  said  Charmoltie,  bowing  to  the  earth. 
"By  the  way,  I  was  on  the  point  of  forgetting.  When  ^doth 
it  please  you  that  I  shall  apprehend  the  little  sorceress  ?  " 

"  What  sorceress  ?  " 


48  NOTRE-DAME. 

"  That  gypsy  girl  you  know,  who  comes  every  day  to  dance 
on  the  church  square,  in  spite  of  the  official's  prohibition ! 
She  hath  a  demoniac  goat  with  horns  of  the  devil,  which 
reads,  which  writes,  which  knows  mathematics  like  Picatrix. 
and  which  would  suffice  to  hang  all  Bohemia.  The  prosecu- 
tion is  all  ready ;  'twill  soon  be  finished,  I  assure  you !  A 
pretty  creature,  on  my  soul,  that  dancer  !  The  handsomest 
black  eyes !  Two  Egyptian  carbuncles !  When  shall  we 
.  begin  ?  " 

The  archdeacon  was  excessively  pale. 

"I  will  tell  you  that  hereafter,"  he  stammered,  in  a  voice 
that  was  barely  articulate ;  then  he  resumed  with  an  effort, 
"  Busy  yourself  with  Marc  Cenaine." 

"  Be  at  ease,"  said  Charmolue  with  a  smile ;  "  I'll  buckle 
him  down  again  for  you  on  the  leather  bed  when  I  get  home. 
But  'tis  a  devil  of  a  man ;  he  wearies  even  Pierrat  Torterue 
himself,  who  hath  hands  larger  than  my  own.  As  that  good 
Plautus  saith,  — 

'Nudus  vinctus,  centum  pondo,  es  quando  pendes  per  pedes.' 

The  torture  of  the  wheel  and  axle !  'Tis  the  most  effectual ! 
He  shall  taste  it ! " 

Dom  Claude  seemed  absorbed  in  gloomy  abstraction.  He 
turned  to  Charmolue,  — 

"  Master  Pierrat  —  Master  Jacques,  I  mean,  busy  yourself 
with  Marc  Cenaine." 

"Yes,  yes,  Dom  Claude.  Poor  man !  he  will  have  suffered 
like  Mummol.  What  an  idea  to  go  to  the  witches'  sabbath  ! 
a  butler  of  the  Court  of  Accounts,  who  ought  to  know  Charle- 
magne's text ;  Stryga  vel  masca  !  —  In  the  matter  of  the  little 
girl,  —  Smelarda,  as  they  call  her,  —  I  will  await  your  orders. 
Ah !  as  we  pass  through  the  portal,  you  will  explain  to  me 
also  the  meaning  of  the  gardener  painted  in  relief,  which  one 
sees  as  one  enters  the  church.  Is  it  not  the  Sower  ?  He ! 
master,  of  what  are  you  thinking,  pray  ?  " 

Dom  Claude,  buried  in  his  own  thoughts,  no  longer  listened 
to  him.  Charmolue,  following  the  direction  of  his  glance. 
perceived  that  it  was  fixed  mechanically  on  the  great  spider's 


THE   TWO  MEN   CLOTHED  IN  BLACK.  49 

web  which  draped  the  window.  At  that  moment,  a  bewil- 
dered fly  which  was  seeking  the  March  sun,  flung  itself 
through  the  net  and  became  entangled  there.  On  the  agita- 
tion of  his  web,  the  enormous  spider  made  an  abrupt  move 
from  his  central  cell,  then  with  one  bound,  rushed  upon  the 
fly,  which  he  folded  together  with  his  fore  antennae,  while  his 
hideous  proboscis  dug  into  the  victim's  head.  "Poor  fly!" 
said  the  king's  procurator  in  the  ecclesiastical  court ;  and  he 
raised  his  hand  to  save  it.  The  archdeacon,  as  though  roused 
with  a  start,  withheld  his  arm  with  convulsive  violence. 

"  Master  Jacques,"  he  cried,   "  let  fate  take  its  course ! " 

The  procurator  wheeled  round  in  affright;  it  seemed  to 
him  that  pincers  of  iron  had  clutched  his  arm.  The  priest's 
eye  was  staring,  wild,  flaming,  and  remained  riveted  on  the 
horrible  little  group  of  the  spider  and  the  fly. 

"  Oh,  yes ! "  continued  the  priest,  in  a  voice  which  seemed 
to  proceed  from  the  depths  of  his  being,  "behold  here  a 
symbol  of  all.  She  flies,  she  is  joyous,  she  is  just  born ;  she 
seeks  the  spring,  the  open  air,  liberty :  oh,  yes !  but  let  her 
come  in  contact  with  the  fatal  network,  and  the  spider  issues 
from  it,  the  hideous  spider !  Poor  dancer !  poor,  predestined 
fly !  Let  things  take  their  course,  Master  Jacques,  'tis  fate ! 
Alas  !  Claude,  thou  art  the  spider !  Claude,  thou  art  the  fly 
also!  Thou  wert  flying  towards  learning,  light,  the  sun. 
Thou  hadst  no  other  care  than  to  reach  the  open  air,  the  full 
daylight  of  eternal  truth;  but  in  precipitating  thyself  to- 
wards the  dazzling  window  which  opens  upon  the  other  world, 
—  upon  the  world  of  brightness,  intelligence,  and  science  - 
blind  fly!  senseless,  learned  man!  thou  hast  not  perceived 
that  subtle  spider's  web,  stretched  by  destiny  betwixt  the 
light  and  thee  — thou  hast  flung  thyself  headlong  into  it,  and 
now  thou  art  struggling  with  head  broken  and  mangled  wings 
between  the  iron  antennee  of  fate  !  Master  Jacques  !  Master 
Jacques  !  let  the  spider  work  its  will !  " 

"  I  assure  you,"  said  Charmolue,  who  was  gazing  at  him 
without  comprehending  him,  "  that  I  will  not  touch  it.  But 
release  my  arm,  master,  for  pity's  sake  !  You  have  a  hand 
like  a  pair  of  pincers  " 


50  NOTRE-DAME. 

The  archdeacon  did  not  hear  him.  "  Oh,  madman ! "  he 
went  on,  without  removing  his  gaze  from  the  window.  "And 
even  couldst  thou  have  broken  through  that  formidable  web, 
with  thy  gnat's  wings,  thou  believest  that  thou  couldst  have 
reached  the  light  ?  Alas  !  that  pane  of  glass  which  is  further 
on,  that  transparent  obstacle,  that  wall  of  crystal,  harder  than 
brass,  which  separates  all  philosophies  from  the  truth,  how 
wouldst  thou  have  overcome  it  ?  Oh,  vanity  of  science !  how 
many  wise  men  come  flying  from  afar,  to  dash  their  heads 
against  thee !  How  many  systems  vainly  fling  themselves 
buzzing  against  that  eternal  pane  !  " 

He  became  silent.  These  last  ideas,  which  had  gradually 
led  him  back  from  himself  to  science,  appeared  to  have  calmed 
him.  Jacques  Charmolue  recalled  him  wholly  to  a  sense  of 
reality  by  addressing  to  him  this  question :  "  Come,  now,  mas- 
ter, when  will  you  come  to  aid  me  in  making  gold  ?  I  am 
impatient  to  succeed." 

The  archdeacon  shook  his  head,  with  a  bitter  smile.  "  Master 
Jacques  read  Michel  Psellus'  'Dialogus  de  Energia  et  Operatione 
Dcpmonum.'  What  we  are  doing  is  not  wholly  innocent." 

"  Speak  lower,  master !  I  have  my  suspicions  of  it,"  said 
Jacques  Charmolue.  "But  one  must  practise  a  bit  of  her- 
metic science  when  one  is  only  procurator  of  the  king  in  the 
ecclesiastical  court,  at  thirty  crowns  tournois  a  year.  Only 
speak  low." 

At  that  moment  the  sound  of  jaws  in  the  act  of  mastica- 
tion, which  proceeded  from  beneath  the  furnace,  struck 
Charmolue's  uneasy  ear. 

"  What's  that  ?  "  he  inquired. 

It  was  the  scholar,  who,  ill  at  ease,  and  greatly  bored  in  his 
hiding-place,  had  succeeded  in  discovering  there  a  stale  crust 
and  a  triangle  of  mouldy  cheese,  and  had  set  to  devouring  the 
whole  without  ceremony,  by  way  of  consolation  and  break- 
fast. As  he  was  very  hungry,  he  made  a  great  deal  of  noise, 
and  he  accented  each  mouthful  strongly,  which  startled  and 
alarmed  the  procurator. 

"  'Tis  a  cat  of  mine,"  said  the  archdeacon,  quickly,  "  who  is 
regaling  herself  under  there  with  a  mouse." 


THE   TWO  MEN  CLOTHED  IN  BLACK. 


51 


This  explanation  satisfied  Charmolue. 

"  In  fact,  master,"  he  replied,  with  a  respectful  sinile,  "  all 
great  philosophers  have  their  familiar  animal.  You  know 
what  Servius  saith  :  '  Nullus  enim  locus  sine  genio  est,  —  for 
there  is  no  place  that  hath  not  its  spirit.'  " 

But  Dom  Claude,  who  stood  in  terror  of  some  new  freak  on 
the  part  of  Jehan,  reminded  his  worthy  disciple  that  they  had 
some  figures  on  the  fa$ade  to  study  together,  and  the  two 
quitted  the  cell,  to  the  accompaniment  of  a  great  "  ouf !  "  from 
the  scholar,  who  began  to  seriously  fear  that  his  knee  would 
acquire  the  imprint  of  his  chin. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


THE   EFFECT    WHICH    SEVEN    OATHS    IN    THE    OPEN    AIR    CAN 
PRODUCE. 

"  TE  DEUM  LAUDAMUS  ! "  exclaimed  Master  Jehan,  creep- 
ing out  from  his  hole,  "  the  screech-owls  have  departed.  Och ! 
och !  Hax !  pax !  max !  fleas !  mad  dogs  !  the  devil !  I  have 
had  enough  of  their  conversation !  My  head  is  humming  like 
a  bell  tower.  And  mouldy  cheese  to  boot !  Come  on  !  Let  us 
descend,  take  the  big  brother's  purse  and  convert  all  these 
coins  into  bottles  ! " 

He  cast  a  glance  of  tenderness  and  admiration  into  the 
interior  of  the  precious  pouch,  readjusted  his  toilet,  rubbed 
up  his  boots,  dusted  his  poor  half  sleeves,  all  gray  with  ashes, 
whistled  an  air,  indulged  in  a  sportive  pirouette,  looked  about 
to  see  whether  there  were  not  something  more  in  the  cell  to 
take,  gathered  up  here  and  there  on  the  furnace  some  amulet 
in  glass  which  might  serve  to  bestow,  in  the  guise  of  a  trinket, 
on  Isabeau  la  Thierrye,  finally  pushed  open  the  door  which  his 
brother  had  left  unfastened,  as  a  last  indulgence,  and  which 
he,  in  his  turn,  left  open  as  a  last  piece  of  malice,  and  de- 
scended the  circular  staircase,  skipping  like  a  bird. 

In  the  midst  of  the  gloom  of  the  spiral  staircase,  he  elbowed 
something  which  drew  aside  with  a  groAvl ;  he  took  it  for 
granted  that  it  was  Quasimodo,  and  it  struck  him  as  so  droll 
that  he  descended  the  remainder  of  the  staircase  holding  his 
sides  with  laughter.  On  emerging  upon  the  Place,  he  laughed 
yet  more  heartily. 

He  stamped  his  foot  when  he  found  himself  on  the  ground 
once  again.  "  Oh ! "  said  he,  "  good  and  honorable  pavement 

52 


THE  EFFECT  OF  SEVEN  OATHS.         53 

of  Paris,  cursed  staircase,  fit  to  put  the  angels  of  Jacob's 
ladder  out  of  breath!  What  was  I  thinking  of  to  thrust 
myself  into  that  stone  gimlet  which  pierces  the  sky ;  all  for 
the  sake  of  eating  bearded  cheese,  and  looking  at  the  bell- 
towers  of  Paris  through  a  hole  in  the  wall ! " 

He  advanced  a  few  paces,  and  caught  sight  of  the  two 
screech  owls,  that  is  to  say,  Dom  Claude  and  Master  Jacques 
Charmolue,  absorbed  in  contemplation  before  a  carving  on  the 
facade.  He  approached  them  on  tiptoe,  and  heard  the  arch- 
deacon say  in  a  low  tone  to  Charmolue:  "'Twas  Guillaume 
de  Paris  who  caused  a  Job  to  be  carved  upon  this  stone  of  the 
hue  of  lapis-lazuli,  gilded  on  the  edges.  Job  represents  the 
philosopher's  stone,  which  must  also  be  tried  and  martyrized 
in  order  to  become  perfect,  as  saith  Raymond  Lulle :  Sub  con- 
servatione  formce  specificce  salva  anima" 

"  That  makes  no  difference  to  me,"  said  Jehan,  "  'tis  I  who 
have  the  purse." 

At  that  moment  he  heard  a  powerful  and  sonorous  voice 
articulate  behind  him  a  formidable  series  of  oaths.  "Sang 
Dieu!  Ventre-Dieu!  Bedieu  !  Corps  de  Dieuf  Nombril  de 
Belzebuth  !  Nom  d'un  pape  !  Come  et  tonnerre" 

"  Upon  my  soul !  "  exclaimed  Jehan,  "  that  can  only  be  my 
friend,  Captain  Phoebus  !  " 

This  name  of  Phoebus  reached  the  ears  of  the  archdeacon  at 
the  moment  when  he  was  explaining  to  the  king's  procurator 
the  dragon  which  is  hiding  its  tail  in  a  bath,  from  which  issue 
smoke  and  the  head  of  a  king.  Dom  Claude  started,  inter- 
rupted himself  and,  to  the  great  amazement  of  Charmolue, 
turned  round  and  beheld  his  brother  Jehan  accosting  a  tall  offi- 
cer at  the  door  of  the  Gondelaurier  mansion. 

It  was,  in  fact,  Captain  Phoebus  de  Chateaupers.  He  was 
backed  up  against  a  corner  of  the  house  of  his  betrothed  and 
swearing  like  a  heathen. 

"  By  my  faith  !  Captain  Phoebus,"  said  Jehan,  taking  him 
by  the  hand,  "  you  are  cursing  with  admirable  vigor." 

"  Horns  and  thunder  !  "  replied  the  captain. 

"  Horns  and  thunder  yourself ! "  replied  the  student, 
now,  fair  captain,  whence  conies  this  overflow  of  fine  words  ?  " 


54  NOTRE-DAME. 

"  Pardon  me,  good  comrade  Jehan,"  exclaimed  Phcebus, 
shaking  his  hand,  aa  horse  going  at  a  gallop  cannot  halt 
short.  Now,  I  was  swearing  at  a  hard  gallop.  I  have  just 
been  with  those  prudes,  and  when  I  come  forth,  I  always  find 
my  throat  full  of  curses,  I  must  spit  them  out  or  strangle, 
venire  et  tonnerre  !  " 

"  Will  you  come  and  drink  ?  "  asked  the  scholar. 

This  proposition  calmed  the  captain. 

"  I'm  willing,  but  I  have  no  money." 

'•  But  I  have  !  " 

"  Bah  !  let's  see  it !  " 

Jehan  spread  out  the  purse  before  the  captain's  eyes,  with 
dignity  and  simplicity.  Meanwhile,  the  archdeacon,  who  had 
abandoned  the  dumbfounded  Charmolue  where  he  stood,  had 
approached  them  and  halted  a  few  paces  distant,  watching 
them  without  their  noticing  him,  so  deeply  were  they  absorbed 
in  contemplation  of  the  purse. 

Phoebus  exclaimed :  "  A  purse  in  your  pocket,  Jehan ! 
'tis  the  moon  in  a  bucket  of  water,  one  sees  it  there  but  'tis 
not  there.  There  is  nothing  but  its  shadow.  Pardieu  !  let  us 
wager  that  these  are  pebbles  !  " 

Jehan  replied  coldly  :  "  Here  are  the  pebbles  wherewith 
I  pave  my  fob  !  " 

And  without  adding  another  word,  he  emptied  the  purse  on  a 
neighboring  post,  with  the  air  of  a  Roman  saving  his  country. 

"  True  God  !  "  muttered  Phcebus,  "  targes,  big-blanks,  little 
blanks,  mailles,  *  every  two  worth  one  of  Tournay,  farthings 
of  Paris,  real  eagle  liards  !  'Tis  dazzling  ! " 

Jehan  remained  dignified  and  immovable.  Several  liards 
had  rolled  into  the  mud;  the  captain  in  his  enthusiasm 
stooped  to  pick  them  up.  Jehan  restrained  him. 

"  Fye,  Captain  Phcebus  de  Chateaupers  ! " 

Phcebus  counted  the  coins,  and  turning  towards  Jehan  with 
solemnity,  "Do  you  know,  Jehan,  that  there  are  three  and 
twenty  sous  parisis !  whom  have  you  plundered  to-night,  in 
the  Street  Cut-Weazand  ?  " 

*  An  ancient  copper  coin,  the  forty-fourth  part  of  a  sou  or  the  twelfth 
part  of  a  farthing. 


THE  EFFECT  OF  SEVEN  OATHS.         55 

Jehan  flung  back  his  blonde  and  curly  head,  and  said,  half- 
closing  his  eyes  disdainfully,  — 

"  We  have  a  brother  who  is  an  archdeacon  and  a  fool." 

"  Come  de  Dieu  !  "  exclaimed  Phoebus,"  the  worthy  man  !  " 

"  Let  us  go  and  drink,"  said  Jehan. 

"  Where  shall  we  go  ?  "  said  Phoebus  ;  " '  To  Eve's  Apple.' " 

"  !No,  captain,  to  '  Ancient  Science.'  An  old  woman  sawing 
a  basket  handle ;  *  'tis  a  rebus,  and  I  like  that." 

"  A  plague  on  rebuses,  Jehan  !  the  wine  is  better  at  '  Eve's 
Apple ' ;  and  then,  beside  the  door  there  is  a  vine  in  the  sun 
which  cheers  me  while  I  am  drinking." 

"  Well !  here  goes  for  Eve  and  her  apple,"  said  the  student, 
and  taking  Phoebus's  arm.  "By  the  way,  my  dear  captain, 
you  just  mentioned  the  Rue  Coupe-Gueule.f  That  is  a  very 
bad  form  of  speech  ;  people  are  no  longer  so  barbarous.  They 
say,  Coupe-Gorge."  \ 

The  two  friends  set  out  towards  "  Eve's  Apple."  It  is  un- 
necessary to  mention  that  they  had  first  gathered  up  the 
money,  and  that  the  archdeacon  followed  them. 

The  archdeacon  followed  them,  gloomy  and  haggard.  Was 
this  the  Phoebus  whose  accursed  name  had  been  mingled  with 
all  his  thoughts  ever  since  his  interview  with  Gringoire  ?  He 
did  not  know  it,  but  it  was  at  least  a  Phoebus,  and  that  magic 
name  sufficed  to  make  the  archdeacon  follow  the  two  heedless 
comrades  with  the  stealthy  tread  of  a  wolf,  listening  to  their 
words  and  observing  their  slightest  gestures  with  anxious 
attention.  Moreover,  nothing  was  easier  than  to  hear  every- 
thing they  said,  as  they  talked  loudly,  not  in  the  least  con- 
cerned that  the  passers-by  were  taken  into  their  confidence. 
They  talked  of  duels,  wenches,  wine  pots,  and  folly. 

At  the  turning  of  a  street,  the  sound  of  a  tambourine 
reached  them  from  a  neighboring  square.  Dom  Claude  heard 
the  officer  say  to  the  scholar,  — 

"  Thunder  !     Let  us  hasten  our  steps  !  " 

"Why,  Phoebus?" 

"  I'm  afraid  lest  the  Bohemian  should  see  me." 

*  TJne  vielle  qui  scie  une  anse.  t  Cut-Weazand  Street. 

|  Cut-Throat  Street. 


56  NOTRE-DAME. 

"  What  Bohemian  ?  " 

"  The  little  girl  with  the  goat." 

"  La  Smeralda  ?  " 

"  That's  it,  Jehan.  I  always  forget  her  devil  of  a  name. 
Let  us  make  haste,  she  will  recognize  me.  I  don't  want  to 
have  that  girl  accost  me  in  the  street." 

"  Do  you  know  her,  Phoebus  ?  " 

Here  the  archdeacon  saw  Phoebus  sneer,  bend  down  to 
Jehan's  ear,  and  say  a  few  words  to  him  in  a  low  voice ;  then 
Phoebus  burst  into  a  laugh,  and  shook  his  head  with  a  trium- 
phant air. 

"  Truly  ?  "  said  Jehan. 

"  Upon  my  soul !  "  said  Phoebus. 

"  This  evening  ?  " 

"  This  evening." 

"  Are  you  sure  that  she  will  come  ?  " 

"  Are  you  a  fool,  Jehan  ?     Does  one  doubt  such  things  ?  " 

"  Captain  Phoebus,  you  are  a  happy  gendarme  ! " 

The  archdeacon  heard  the  whole  of  this  conversation.  His 
teeth  chattered ;  a  visible  shiver  ran  through  his  whole  body. 
He  halted  for  a  moment,  leaned  against  a  post  like  a  drunken 
man,  then  followed  the  two  merry  knaves. 

At  the  moment  when  he  overtook  them  once  more,  they 
had  changed  their  conversation.  He  heard  them  singing  at 
the  top  of  their  lungs  the  ancient  refrain,  — 

Les  enfants  des  Petits-Carreaux 
Se  font  pendre  coinme  des  veaux.  * 

*  The  children  of  the  Petits  Carreaux  let  themselves  be  hung  like  calves. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE    MYSTERIOUS    MONK. 

THE  illustrious  wine  shop  of  "  Eve's  Apple  "  was  situated  in 
the  University,  at  the  corner  of  the  Eue  de  la  Eondelle  and 
the  Rue  de  la  Batonnier.  It  was  a  very  spacious  and  very 
low  hall  on  the  ground  floor,  with  a  vaulted  ceiling  whose  cen- 
tral spring  rested  upon  a  huge  pillar  of  wood  painted  yellow ; 
tables  everywhere,  shining  pewter  jugs  hanging  on  the  walls, 
always  a  large  number  of  drinkers,  a  plenty  of  wenches,  a 
window  on  the  street,  a  vine  at  the  door,  and  over  the  door 
a  flaring  piece  of  sheet-iron,  painted  with  an  apple  and  a 
woman,  rusted  by  the  rain  and  turning  with  the  wind  on  an 
iron  pin.  This  species  of  weather-vane  which  looked  upon 
the  pavement  was  the  signboard. 

Night  was  falling ;  the  square  was  dark ;  the  wine-shop, 
full  of  candles,  flamed  afar  like  a  forge  in  the  gloom;  the 
noise  of  glasses  and  feasting,  of  oaths  and  quarrels,  which  es- 
caped through  the  broken  panes,  was  audible.  Through  the 
mist  which  the  warmth  of-  the  room  spread  over  the  window 
in  front,  a  hundred  confused  figures  could  be  seen  swarming, 
and  from  time  to  time  a  burst  of  noisy  laughter  broke  forth 
from  it.  The  passers-by  who  were  going  about  their  business, 
slipped  past  this  tumultuous  window  without  glancing  at  it. 
Only  at  intervals  did  some  little  ragged  boy  raise  himself 
on  tiptoe  as  far  as  the  ledge,  and  hurl  into  the  drinking-shop, 
that  ancient,  jeering  hoot,  with  which  drunken  men  were  then 
pursued :  "  Aux  Houls,  saouls,  saouls,  saouls  !  " 

Nevertheless,  one  man  paced  imperturbably  back  and  forth 

57 


58  NOTEE-DAME. 

in  front  of  the  tavern,  gazing  at  it  incessantly,  and  going  no 
further  from  it  than  a  pikeman  from  his  sentry-box.  He  was 
enveloped  in  a  mantle  to  his  very  nose.  This  mantle  he  had 
just  purchased  of  the  old-clothes  man,  in  the  vicinity  of  the 
"  Eve's  Apple,"  no  doubt  to  protect  himself  from  the  cold  of 
the  March  evening,  possibly  also,  to  conceal  his  costume. 
From  time  to  time  he  paused  in  front  of  the  dim  window  with 
its  leaden  lattice,  listened,  looked,  and  stamped  his  foot. 

At  length  the  door  of  the  dram-shop  opened.  This  was 
what  he  appeared  to  be  waiting  for.  Two  boon  companions 
came  forth.  The  ray  of  light  which  escaped  from  the  door 
crimsoned  for  a  moment  their  jovial  faces. 

The  man  in  the  mantle  went  and  stationed  himself  on  the 
watch  under  a  porch  on  the  other  side  of  the  street. 

"  Come  et  tonnerre !  "  said  one  of  the  comrades.  "  Seven 
o'clock  is  on  the  point  of  striking.  'Tis  the  hour  of  my  ap- 
pointed meeting." 

"  I  tell  you,"  repeated  his  companion,  with  a  thick  tongue, 
"that  I  don't  live  in  the  Rue  des  Mauvaises  Paroles,  ind'ujnus 
qui  inter  mala  verba  habitat.  I  have  a  lodging  in  the  Rue 
Jean-Pain-Mollet,  in  vico  Johannis  Pain-Mollet.  You  are 
more  horned  than  a  unicorn  if  you  assert  the  contrary. 
Every  one  knows  that  he  who  once  mounts  astride  a  bear  is 
never  after  afraid ;  but  you  have  a  nose  turned  to  dainties  like 
Saint-Jacques  of  the  hospital." 

"  Jehan,  my  friend,  you  are  drunk,"  said  the  other. 

The  other  replied  staggering,  "It  pleases  you  to  say  so, 
Phoebus ;  but  it  hath  been  proved  that  Plato  had  the  profile 
of  a  hound." 

The  reader  has,  no  doubt,  already  recognized  our  two  brave 
friends,  the  captain  and  the  scholar.  It  appears  that  the  man 
who  was  lying  in  wait  for  them  had  also  recognized  them,  for 
he  slowly  followed  all  the  zigzags  that  the  scholar  caused  the 
captain  to  make,  who  being  a  more  hardened  drinker  had 
retained  all  his  self-possession.  By  listening  to  them  atten- 
tively, the  man  in  the  mantle  could  catch  in  its  entirety  the 
following  interesting  conversation,  — 

"  Corbacque !     Do  try  to  walk    straight,  master  bachelor; 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  MONK.  59 

you  know  that  I  must  leave  you.     Here  it  is  seven  o'clock. 
I  have  an  appointment  with  a  woman." 

"  Leave  me  then  !  I  see  stars  and  lances  of  fire.  You  are  like 
the  Chateau  de  Dampmartin,  which  is  bursting  with  laughter." 

"  By  the  warts  of  my  grandmother,  Jehan,  you  are  raving 
with  too  much  rabidness.  By  the  way,  Jehan,  have  you  any 
money  left  ?  " 

"  Monsieur  Rector,  there  is  no  mistake  ;  the  little  butcher's 
shop,  parva  boucheria." 

"  Jehan !  my  friend  Jehan !  You  know  that  I  made  an  ap- 
pointment with  that  little  girl  at  the  end  of  the  Pont  Saint- 
Michel,  and  I  can  only  take  her  to  the  Falourdel's,  the  old 
crone  of  the  bridge,  and  that  I  must  pay  for  a  chamber.  The 
old  witch  with  a  white  moustache  would  not  trust  me.  Je- 
han !  for  pity's  sake !  Have  we  drunk  up  the  whole  of  the 
cure's  purse  ?  Have  you  not  a  single  parisis  left  ?  " 

"  The  consciousness  of  having  spent  the  other  hours  well  is 
a  just  and  savory  condiment  for  the  table." 

"  Belly  and  guts  !  a  truce  to  your  whimsical  nonsense !  Tell 
me,  Jehan  of  the  devil !  have  you  any  money  left  ?  Give 
it  to  me,  bedieu  !  "  or  I  will  search  you,  were  you  as  leprous  as 
Job,  and  as  scabby  as  Csesar ! " 

"  Monsieur,  the  Eue  Galiache  is  a  street  which  hath  at  one 
end  the  Rue  de  la  Verrerie,  and  at  the  other  the  Rue  de  la 
Tixeranderie." 

"  Well,  yes  !  my  good  friend  Jehan,  my  poor  comrade,  the 
Rue  Galiache  is  good,  very  good.  But  in  the  name  of  heaven 
collect  your  wits.  I  must  have  a  sou  parisis,  and  the  appoint- 
ment is  for  seven  o'clock." 

"  Silence  for  the  rondo,  and  attention  to  the  refrain,  — 
"  Quand  les  rats  mangeront  les  cas, 
Le  roi  sera  seigneur  d'Arras ; 
Quand  la  mer,  qui  est  grande  et  lee 
Sera  a  la  Saint-Jean  gelee, 
On  verra,  par-dessus  la  glace, 
Sortir  ceux  d'  Arras  de  leur  place.  " 

*  When  the  rats  eat  the  cats,  the  king  will  be  lord  of  Arras;  when  the 
sea  which  is  great  and  wide,  is  frozen  over  at  St.  John's  tide,  men  will 
see  across  the  ice,  those  who  dwell  in  Arras  quit  their  place. 


60  NOTRE-DAME. 

"  Well,  scholar  of  Antichrist,  may  you  be  strangled  with  the 
entrails  of  your  mother!"  exclaimed  Phoebus,  and  he  gave 
the  drunken  scholar  a  rough  push ;  the  latter  slipped  against 
the  wall,  and  slid  flabbily  to  the  pavement  of  Philip  Au- 
gustus. A  remnant  of  fraternal  pity,  which  never  abandons 
the  heart  of  a  drinker,  prompted  Phoebus  to  roll  Jehan  with 
his  foot  upon  one  of  those  pillows  of  the  poor,  which  Provi- 
dence keeps  in  readiness  at  the  corner  of  all  the  street  posts 
of  Paris,  and  which  the  rich  blight  with  the  name  of  "  a  rub- 
bish-heap." The  captain  adjusted  Jehan's  head  upon  an  in- 
clined plane  of  cabbage-stumps,  and  on  the  very  instant,  the 
scholar  fell  to  snoring  in  a  magnificent  bass.  Meanwhile,  all 
malice  was  not  extinguished  in  the  captain's  heart.  "  So  much 
the  worse  if  the  devil's  cart  picks  you  up  on  its  passage  ! "  he 
said  to  the  poor,  sleeping  clerk  ;  and  he  strode  off. 

The  man  in  the  mantle,  who  had  not  ceased  to  follow  him, 
halted  for  a  moment  before  the  prostrate  scholar,  as  though 
agitated  by  indecision;  then,  uttering  a  profound  sigh,  he 
also  strode  off  in  pursuit  of  the  captain. 

We,  like  them,  will  leave  Jehan  to  slumber  beneath  the 
open  sky,  and  will  follow  them  also,  if  it  pleases  the  reader. 

On  emerging  into  the  Rue  Saint-Andre-des-Arcs,  Captain 
Phoebus  perceived  that  some  one  was  following  him.  On 
glancing  sideways  by  chance,  he  perceived  a  sort  of  shadow 
crawling  after  him  along  the  walls.  He  halted,  it  halted ;  he 
resumed  his  march,  it  resumed  its  march.  This  disturbed 
him  not  overmuch.  "  Ah,  bah  ! "  he  said  to  himself,  "  I  have 
not  a  sou." 

He  paused  in  front  of  the  College  d'Autun.  It  was  at  this 
college  that  he  had  sketched  out  what  he  called  his  studies, 
and,  through  a  scholar's  teasing  habit  which  still  lingered  in 
him,  he  never  passed  the  facade  without  inflicting  on  the 
statue  of  Cardinal  Pierre  Bertrand,  sculptured  to  the  right  of 
the  portal,  the  affront  of  which  Priapus  complains  so  bitterly 
in  the  satire  of  Horace,  Olim  truncus  eram  ficulnus.  He  had 
done  this  with  so  much  unrelenting  animosity  that  the  in- 
scription, Eduensls  episcoptts,  had  become  almost  effaced. 
Therefore,  he  halted  before  the  statue  according  to  his  wont. 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  MONK.  Qi 

The  street  was  utterly  deserted.  At  the  moment  when  he 
was  coolly  retying  his  shoulder  knots,  with  his  nose  in  the 
air,  he  saw  the  shadow  approaching  him  with  slow  steps,  so 
slow  that  he  had  ample  time  to  observe  that  this  shadow  wore 
a  cloak  and  a  hat.  On  arriving  near  him,  it  halted  and  re- 
mained more  motionless  than  the  statue  of  Cardinal  Bertrand. 
Meanwhile,  it  riveted  upon  Phrebus  two  intent  eyes,  full  of 
that  vague  light  which  issues  in  the  night  time  from  the  pupils 
of  a  cat. 

The  captain  was  brave,  and  would  have  cared  very  little  for 
a  highwayman,  with  a  rapier  in  his  hand.  But  this  walking 
statue,  this  petrified  man,  froze  his  blood.  There  were  then 
in  circulation,  strange  stories  of  a  surly  monk,  a  nocturnal 
prowler  about  the  streets  of  Paris,  and  they  recurred  confus- 
edly to  his  memory.  He  remained  for  several  minutes  in 
stupefaction,  and  finally  broke  the  silence  with  a  forced  laugh. 

"  Monsieur,  if  you  are  a  robber,  as  I  hope  you  are,  you  pro- 
duce upon  me  the  effect  of  a  heron  attacking  a  nutshell.  I 
am  the  son  of  a  ruined  family,  my  dear  fellow.  Try  your 
hand  near  by  here.  In  the  chapel  of  this  college  there  is 
some  wood  of  the  true  cross  set  in  silver." 

The  hand  of  the  shadow  emerged  from  beneath  its  mantle 
and  descended  upon  the  arm  of  Phoebus  with  the  gripe  of  an 
eagle's  talon ;  at  the  same  time  the  shadow  spoke,  — 

"  Captain  Phoebus  de  Chateaupers  !  " 

"  What,  the  devil ! "  said  Phoebus,  "  you  know  my  name ! " 

"  I  know  not  your  name  alone,"  continued  the  man  in  the 
mantle,  with  his  sepulchral  voice.  "You  have  a  rendezvous 
this  evening." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Phoebus  in  amazement. 

"  At  seven  o'clock." 

"  In  a  quarter  of  an  hour." 

"  At  la  FalourdeFs." 

"  Precisely." 

"  The  lewd  hag  of  the  Pont  Saint-Michel." 

"Of  Saint  Michel  the  archangel,  as  the  Pater  Noster  smth." 

"  Impious  wretch  !  "  muttered  the  spectre.  « With  a 
woman  ?  " 


62  jfOTRE-DAME. 

"  Confiteor,  —  I  confess  — ." 

"Who  is  called—?" 

"  La  Sraeralda,"  said  Phoebus,  gayly.  All  his  heedlessness 
had  gradually  returned. 

At  this  name,  the  shadow's  grasp  shook  the  arm  of  Phoebus 
in  a  fury. 

"  Captain  Phoebus  de  Chateaupers,  thou  liest !  " 

Any  one  who  could  have  beheld  at  that  moment  the  cap- 
tain's inflamed  countenance,  his  leap  backwards,  so  violent 
that  he  disengaged  himself  from  the  grip  which  held  him, 
the  proud  air  with  which  he  clapped  his  hand  on  his  sword- 
hilt,  and,  in  the  presence  of  this  wrath  the  gloomy  immobility 
of  the  man  in  the  cloak,  —  any  one  who  could  have  beheld 
this  would  have  been  frightened.  There  was  in  it  a  touch  of 
the  combat  of  Don  Juan  and  the  statue. 

"  Christ  and  Satan  !  "  exclaimed  the  captain.  "  That  is  a 
word  which  rarely  strikes  the  ear  of  a  Chateaupers !  Thou 
wilt  not  dare  repeat  it." 

"  Thou  liest ! "  said  the  shadow  coldly. 

The  captain  gnashed  his  teeth.  Surly  monk,  phantom, 
superstitions,  —  he  had  forgotten  all  at  that  moment.  He  no 
longer  beheld  anything  but  a  man,  and  an  insult. 

"  Ah  !  this  is  well !  "  he  stammered,  in  a  voice  stifled  with 
rage.  He  drew  his  sword,  then  stammering,  for  anger  as  well 
as  fear  makes  a  man  tremble  :  —  "  Here !  On  the  spot !  Come 
on !  Swords  !  Swords  !  Blood  on  the  pavement ! " 

But  the  other  never  stirred.  When  he  beheld  his  adversary 
on  guard  and  ready  to  parry,  — 

"Captain  Phoebus,"  he  said,  and  his  tone  vibrated  with 
bitterness,  "  you  forget  your  appointment." 

The  rages  of  men  like  Phoebus  are  milk-soups,  whose  ebul- 
lition is  calmed  by  a  drop  of  cold  water.  This  simple  remark 
caused  the  sword  which  glittered  in  the  captain's  hand  to  be 
lowered. 

"Captain,"  pursued  the  man,  "to-morrow,  the  day  after 
to-morrow,  a  month  hence,  ten  years  hence,  you  will  find  me 
ready  to  cut  your  throat ;  but  go  first  to  your  rendezvous." 

"  In  sooth/'  said  Phoebus,  as  though  seeking  to  capitulate 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  MONK.  63 

with  himself,  "  these  are  two  charming  things  to  be  encount- 
ered in  a  rendezvous,  —  a  sword  and  a  wench ;  but  I  do  not 
see  why  I  should  miss  the  one  for  the  sake  of  the  other,  when 
I  can  have  both." 

He  replaced  his  sword  in  its  scabbard. 

"  Go  to  your  rendezvous,"  said  the  man. 

"Monsieur,"  replied  Phoebus  with  some  embarrassment, 
"many  thanks  for  your  courtesy.  In  fact,  there  will  be 
ample  time  to-morrow  for  us  to  chop  up  father  Adam's  doub- 
let into  slashes  and  buttonholes.  I  am  obliged  to  you  for 
allowing  me  to  pass  one  more  agreeable  quarter  of  an  hour.  I 
certainly  did  hope  to  put  you  in  the  gutter,  and  still  arrive 
in  time  for  the  fair  one,  especially  as  it  has  a  better  appear- 
ance to  make  the  women  wait  a  little  in  such  cases.  But  you 
strike  me  as  having  the  air  of  a  gallant  man,  and  it  is  safer  to 
defer  our  affair  until  to-morrow.  So  I  will  betake  myself  to 
my  rendezvous ;  it  is  for  seven  o'clock,  as  you  know."  Here 
Phoebus  scratched  his  ear.  "  Ah .  Come  Dieu  !  I  had  for- 
gotten !  I  haven't  a  sou  to  discharge  the  price  of  the  garret, 
and  the  old  crone  will  insist  on  being  paid  in  advance.  She 
distrusts  me." 

"  Here  is  the  wherewithal  to  pay." 

Phoebus  felt  the  stranger's  cold  hand  slip  into  his  a  large 
piece  of  money.  He  could  not  refrain  from  taking  the  money 
and  pressing  the  hand. 

"  Vrai  Dieu  !  "   he   exclaimed,  "  you  are  a  good  fellow ! : 

«  One  condition,"  said  the  man.  "  Prove  to  me  that  I  have 
been  wrong  and  that  you  were  speaking  the  truth.  Hide  me 
in  some  comer  whence  I  can  see  whether  this  woman  is  really 
the  one  whose  name  you  uttered." 

«  Oh ! "  replied  Phoebus,  "  'tis  all  one  to  me.     We  wil 
the  Sainte-Marthe  chamber;  you  can  look  at  your  ease  from 
the  kennel  hard  by." 

"  Come  then,"  said  the  shadow." 

"At  your  service,"  said  the  captain,  "I  know  not  whether 
you  are  Messer  Diavolus  in  person  ;  but  let  us  be  good  f  rie 
for  this  evening ;  to-morrow  I  will  repay  you  all  my  c 
both  of  purse  and  sword." 


64  NOTES-DAME. 

They  set  out  again  at  a  rapid  pace.  At  the  expiration  of  ?- 
few  minutes,  the  sound  of  the  river  announced  to  them  that 
they  were  on  the  Pont  Saint-Michel,  then  loaded  with  houses. 

"  I  will  first  show  you  the  way,"  said  Phoebus  to  his  com- 
panion, "  I  will  then  go  in  search  of  the  fair  one  who  is  aAvait- 
ing  me  near  the  Petit-Chfitelet." 

His  companion  made  no  reply  ;  he  had  not  uttered  a  word 
since  they  had  been  walking  side  by  side.  Phoebus  halted 
before  a  low  door,  and  knocked  roughly  ;  a  light  made  its 
appearance  through  the  cracks  of  the  door. 

"  Who  is  there  ?  "  cried  a  toothless  voice. 

"  Corps-Dieu  !  Tete-Dieu  !  Ventre-Dieu  !  "  replied  the  cap- 
tain. 

The  door  opened  instantly,  and  allowed  the  new-comers  to 
see  an  old  woman  and  an  old  lamp,  both  of  which  trembled. 
The  old  woman  was  bent  double,  clad  in  tatters,  with  a  shak- 
ing head,  pierced  with  two  small  eyes,  and  coiffed  with  a  dish 
clout ;  wrinkled  everywhere,  on  hands  and  face  and  neck  ;  her 
lips  retreated  under  her  gums,  and  about  her  mouth  she  had 
tufts  of  white  hairs  which  gave  her  the  whiskered  look  of  a  cat. 

The  interior  of  the  den  was  no  less  dilapitated  than  she ; 
there  were  chalk  walls,  blackened  beams  in  the  ceiling,  a  dis- 
mantled chimney-piece,  spiders'  webs  in  all  the  corners,  in 
the  middle  a  staggering  herd  of  tables  and  lame  stools,  a  dirty 
child  among  the  ashes,  and  at  the  back  a  staircase,  or  rather, 
a  wooden  ladder,  which  ended  in  a  trap  door  in  the  ceiling. 

On  entering  this  lair,  Phoebus's  mysterious  companion  raised 
his  mantle  to  his  very  eyes.  Meanwhile,  the  captain,  swear- 
ing like  a  Saracen,  hastened  to  "make  the  sun  shine  in  a 
crown  "  as  saith  our  admirable  Regnier. 

"  The  Sainte-Marthe  chamber,"  said  he. 

The  old  woman  addressed  him  as  monseigneur,  and  shut  up 
the  crown  in  a  drawer.  It  was  the  coin  which  the  man  in  the 
black  mantle  had  given  to  Phoebus.  While  her  back  was 
turned,  the  bushy-headed  and  ragged  little  boy  who  was  play- 
ing in  the  ashes,  adroitly  approached  the  drawer,  abstracted 
the  crown,  and  put  in  its  place  a  dry  leaf  which  he  had  plucked 
from  a  fagot. 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  MONK. 


65 


The  old  crone  made  a  sign  to  the  two  gentlemen,  as  she 
called  them,  to  follow  her,  and  mounted  the  ladder  in  advance 
of  them.  On  arriving  at  the  upper  story,  she  set  her  lamp  on 
a  coffer,  and,  Phoebus,  like  a  frequent  visitor  of  the  house, 
opened  a  door  which  opened  on  a  dark  hole.  "  Enter  here, 
my  dear  fellow,"  he  said  to  his  companion.  The  man  in  the 
mantle  obeyed  without  a  word  in  reply,  the  door  closed  upon 
him ;  he  heard  Phosbus  bolt  it,  and  a  moment  later  descend 
the  stairs  again  with  the  aged  hag.  The  light  had  disap- 
peared. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE    UTILITY    OF    WINDOWS    WHICH    OPEN"    ON    THE    RIVER. 

CLAUDE  FROLLO  (for  we  presume  that  the  reader,  more  intel- 
ligent than  Phoebus,  has  seen  in  this  whole  adventure  no  other 
surly  monk  than  the  archdeacon),  Claude  Frollo  groped  about 
for  several  moments  in  the  dark  lair  into  which  the  captain 
had  bolted  him.  It  was  one  of  those  nooks  which  architects 
sometimes  reserve  at  the  point  of  junction  between  the  roof 
and  the  supporting  wall.  A  vertical  section  of  this  kennel,  as 
Phoebus  had  so  justly  styled  it,  would  have  made  a  triangle. 
Moreover,  there  was  neither  window  nor  air-hole,  and  the  slope 
of  the  roof  prevented  one  from  standing  upright.  Accord- 
ingly, Claude  crouched  down  in  the  dust,  and  the  plaster 
which  cracked  beneath  him  ;  his  head  was  on  fire  ;  rummaging 
around  him  with  his  hands,  he  found  on  the  floor  a  bit  of 
broken  glass,  which  he  pressed  to  his  brow,  and  whose  cool- 
ness afforded  him  some  relief. 

What  was  taking  place  at  that  moment  in  the  gloomy  soul 
of  the  archdeacon  ?  God  and  himself  could  alone  know. 

In  what  order  was  he  arranging  in  his  mind  la  Esmeralda, 
Phoebus,  Jacques  Charmolue,  his  young  brother  so  beloved,  yet 
abandoned  by  him  in  the  mire,  his  archdeacon's  cassock,  his 
reputation  perhaps  dragged  to  la  Falourdel's,  all  these  adven- 
tures, all  these  images  ?  I  cannot  say.  But  it  is  certain  that 
these  ideas  formed  in  his  mind  a  horrible  group. 

He  had  been  waiting  a  quarter  of  an  hour ;  it  seemed  to 
him  that  he  had  grown  a  century  older.  All  at  once  he  heard 

66 


WINDOWS    WHICH  OPEN  ON   THE  RIVER.  67 

the  creaking  of  the  boards  of  the  stairway ;  some  one  was 
ascending.  The  trapdoor  opened  once  more ;  a  light  re- 
appeared. There  was  a  tolerably  large  crack  in  the  worm- 
eaten  door  of  his  den  ;  he  put  his  face  to  it.  In  this  manner 
he  could  see  all  that  went  on  in  the  adjoining  room.  The 
cat-faced  old  crone  was  the  first  to  emerge  from  the  trap-door, 
lamp  in  hand  ;  then  Phoebus,  twirling  his  moustache,  then  a 
third  person,  that  beautiful  and  graceful  figure,  la  Esmeralda. 
The  priest  beheld  her  rise  from  below  like  a  dazzling  appa- 
rition. Claude  trembled,  a  cloud  spread  over  his  eyes,  his 
pulses  beat  violently,  everything  rustled  and  whirled  around 
him ;  he  no  longer  saw  nor  heard  anything. 

When  he  recovered  himself,  Phoebus  and  Esmeralda  were 
alone  seated  on  the  wooden  coffer  beside  the  lamp  which 
made  these  two  youthful  figures  and  a  miserable  pallet  at 
the  end  of  the  attic  stand  out  plainly  before  the  archdeacon's 
eyes. 

Beside  the  pallet  was  a  window,  whose  panes  broken  like  a 
spider's  web  upon  which  rain  has  fallen,  allowed  a  view,  through 
its  rent  meshes,  of  a  corner  of  the  sky,  and  the  moon  lying 
far  away  on  an  eiderdown  bed  of  soft  clouds. 

The  young  girl  was  blushing,  confused,  palpitating.  Her 
long,  drooping  lashes  shaded  her  crimson  cheeks.  The  officer, 
to  whom  she  dared  not  lift  her  eyes,  was  radiant.  Mechani- 
cally, and  with  a  charmingly  unconscious  gesture,  she  traced 
with  the  tip  of  her  finger  incoherent  lines  on  the  bench,  and 
watched  her  finger.  Her  foot  was  not  visible.  The  little 
goat  was  nestling  upon  it. 

The  captain  was  very  gallantly  clad ;  he  had  tufts  of  em- 
broidery at  his  neck  and  wrists ;  a  great  elegance  at  that  day. 

It  was  not  without  difficulty  that  Dom  Claude  managed  to 
hear  what  they  were  saying,  through  the  humming  of  the 
blood,  which  was  boiling  in  his  temples. 

(A  conversation  between  lovers  is  a  very  commonplace 
affair.  It  is  a  perpetual  "I  love  you."  A  musical  phrase 
which  is  very  insipid  and  very  bald  for  indifferent  listeners, 
when  it  is  not  ornamented  with  some  fioriture  ;  but  Claude 
was  not  an  indifferent  listener.) 


68  NOTRE-DAME. 

"  Oh ! "  said  the  young  girl,  without  raising  her  eyes,  "  do 
not  despise  nie,  monseigneur  Phoebus.  I  feel  that  what  I  am 
doing  is  not  right." 

"  Despise  you,  my  pretty  child ! "  replied  the  officer  with 
an  air  of  superior  and  distinguished  gallantry,  "  despise  you, 
tete-Dieu  !  and  why  ?  " 

"  For  having  followed  you  ! " 

"  On  that  point,  my  beauty,  we  don't  agree.  I  ought  not  to 
despise  you,  but  to  hate  you." 

The  young  girl  looked  at  him  in  affright :  "  Hate  me  !  what 
have  I  done  ?  " 

"  For  having  required  so  much  urging." 

"  Alas  ! "  said  she,  "  'tis  because  I  am  breaking  a  vow.  I 
shall  not  find  my  parents !  The  amulet  will  lose  its  virtue. 
But  what  matters  it  ?  What  need  have  I  of  father  or  mother 
now  ?  " 

So  saying,  she  fixed  upon  the  captain  her  great  black  eyes, 
moist  with  joy  and  tenderness. 

"  Devil  take  me  if  I  understand  you !  "  exclaimed  Phoabus. 

La  Esmeralda  remained  silent  for  a  moment,  then  a  tear 
dropped  from  her  eyes,  a  sigh  from  her  lips,  and  she  said,  — 
"  Oh  !  monseigneur,  I  love  you." 

Such  a  perfume  of  chastity,  such  a  charm  of  virtue  sur- 
rounded the  young  girl,  that  Phoebus  did  not  feel  completely 
at  his  ease  beside  her.  But  this  remark  emboldened  him  : 
"  You  love  me  !  "  he  said  with  rapture,  and  he  threw  his  arm 
round  the  gypsy's  waist.  He  had  only  been  waiting  for  this 
opportunity. 

The  priest  saw  it,  and  tested  with  the  tip  of  his  finger  the 
point  of  a  poniard  which  he  wore  concealed  in  his  breast. 

"Phoebus,"  continued  the  Bohemian,  gently  releasing  her 
waist  from  the  captain's  tenacious  hands,  "  You  are  good,  you 
are  generous,  you  are  handsome;  you  saved  me,  me  who  am 
only  a  poor  child  lost  in  Bohemia.  I  had  long  been  dreaming 
of  an  officer  who  should  save  my  life.  'Twas  of  you  that  I 
was  dreaming,  before  I  knew  you,  my  Phosbus ;  the  officer  of 
my  dream  had  a  beautiful  uniform  like  yours,  a  grand  look,  a 
sword ;  your  name  is  Phoebus ;  'tis  a  beautiful  name.  I  love 


WINDOWS    WHICH  OPEN  ON   THE  RIVER  69 

your  name ;  I  love  your  sword.  Draw  your  sword,  Phoebus, 
that  I  may  see  it." 

"  Child !  "  said  the  captain,  and  he  unsheathed  his  sword 
with  a  smile. 

The  gipsy  looked  at  the  hilt,  the  blade ;  examined  the 
cipher  on  the  guard  with  adorable  curiosity,  and  kissed  the 
sword,  saying,  — • 

"  You  are  the  sword  of  a  brave  man.     I  love  my  captain." 

Phoebus  again  profited  by  the  opportunity  to  impress  upon 
her  beautiful  bent  neck  a  kiss  which  made  the  young  girl 
straighten  herself  up  as  scarlet  as  a  poppy.  The  priest 
gnashed  his  teeth  over  it  in  the  dark. 

"  Phoebus,"  resumed  the  gypsy,  "  let  me  talk  to  you.  Pray 
walk  a  little,  that  I  may  see  you  at  full  height,  and  that  I 
may  hear  your  spurs  jingle.  How  handsome  you  are ! " 

The  captain  rose  to  please  her,  chiding  her  with  a  smile  of 
satisfaction,  — 

"  What  a  child  you  are  !  By  the  way,  my  charmer,  have 
you  seen  me  in  my  archer's  ceremonial  doublet  ?  " 

"  Alas  !  no,"  she  replied. 

"  It  is  very  handsome  ! " 

Phoebus  returned  and  seated  himself  beside  her,  but  much 
closer  than  before. 

"  Listen,  my  dear  —  " 

The  gypsy  gave  him  several  little  taps  with  her  pretty 
hand  on  his  mouth,  with  a  childish  mirth  and  grace  and 
gayety. 

"  No,  no,  I  will  not  listen  to  you.  Do  you  love  me  ?  I 
want  you  to  tell  me  whether  you  love  me." 

"  Do  I  love  thee,  angel  of  my  life  ! "  exclaimed  the  captain, 
half  kneeling.  "  My  body,  my  blood,  my  soul,  all  are  thine ; 
all  are  for  thee.  I  love  thee,  and  I  have  never  loved  any  one 
but  thee." 

The  captain  had  repeated  this  phrase  so  many  times,  m 
many  similar  conjunctures,  that  he  delivered  it  all  in  one 
breath,  without  committing  a  single  mistake.  At  this  pas- 
sionate declaration,  the  gypsy  raised  to  the  dirty  ceiling  which 
served  for  the  skies  a  glance  full  of  angelic  happiness. 


70  NOTEE-DAME. 

"  Oh ! "  she  murmured,  "  this  is  the  moment  when  one 
should  die!" 

Phoebus  found  "  the  moment "  favorable  for  robbing  her  o  f 
another  kiss,  which  went  to  torture  the  unhappy  archdeacon 
in  his  nook.  "Die!"  exclaimed  the  amorous  captain,  "What 
are  you  saying,  my  lovely  angel  ?  'Tis  a  time  for  living,  or 
Jupiter  is  only  a  scamp !  Die  at  the  beginning  of  so  sweet  a 
thing !  Corne-de-bosuf,  what  a  jest !  It  is  not  that.  Listen, 
my  dear  Similar,  Esmenarda  —  Pardon !  you  have  so  prodig- 
iously Saracen  a  name  that  I  never  can  get  it  straight.  'Tis 
a  thicket  which  stops  me  short." 

"  Good  heavens ! "  said  the  poor  girl,  "  and  I  thought  my 
name  pretty  because  of  its  singularity  !  But  since  it  dis- 
pleases you,  I  would  that  I  were  called  Goton." 

"Ah!  do  not  weep  for  such  a  trifle,  my  graceful  maid! 
'tis  a  name  to  which  one  must  get  accustomed,  that  is  all . 
When  I  once  know  it  by  heart,  all  will  go  smoothly.  Listen 
then,  my  dear  Similar ;  I  adore  you  passionately.  I  love  you 
so  that  'tis  simply  miraculous.  I  know  a  girl  who  is  burst- 
ing with  rage  over  it  —  " 

The  jealous  girl  interrupted  him :  "  Who  ?  " 

"  What  matters  that  to  us  ?  "  said  Phosbus ;  "  do  you  love 
me  ?  " 

« Oh! "  —  said  she. 

"  Well !  that  is  all.  You  shall  see  how  I  love  you  also. 
May  the  great  devil  Neptunus  spear  me  if  I  do  not  make  you 
the  happiest  woman  in  the  world.  We  will  have  a  pretty 
little  house  somewhere.  I  will  make  my  archers  parade 
before  your  windows.  They  are  all  mounted,  and  set  at 
defiance  those  of  Captain  Mignon.  There  are  voulgiers,  crane- 
quiniers  and  hand  couleveiniers*  I  will  take  you  to  the  great 
sights  of  the  Parisians  at  the  storehouse  of  Rully.  Eighty 
thousand  armed  men,  thirty  thousand  white  harnesses,  short 
coats  or  coats  of  mail ;  the  sixty -seven  banners  of  the  trades ; 
the  standards  of  the  parliaments,  of  the  chamber  of  accounts, 
of  the  treasury  of  the  generals,  of  the  aides  of  the  mint;  a 
devilish  fine  array,  in  short !  I  will  conduct  you  to  see  the 

*  Varieties  of  the  crossbow. 


WINDOWS    WHICH  OPEN  ON   THE  RIVER.  7} 

lions  of  the  Hotel  clu  Koi,  which  are  wild  beasts.  All  women 
love  that." 

For  several  moments  the  young  girl,  absorbed  in  her  charm- 
ing thoughts,  was  dreaming  to  the  sound  of  his  voice,  without 
listening  to  the  sense  of  his  words. 

"  Oh !  how  happy  you  will  be  !  "  continued  the  captain,  and 
at  the  same  time  he  gently  unbuckled  the  gypsy's  girdle. 

"  What  are  you  doing  ?  "  she  said  quickly.  This  "  act  of 
violence  "  had  roused  her  from  her  revery. 

"Nothing,"  replied  Poebus,  "I  was  only  saying  that  you 
must  abandon  all  this  garb  of  folly,  and  the  street  corner 
when  you  are  with  me." 

"When  I  am  with  you,  Phoebus!"  said  the  young  girl 
tenderly. 

She  became  pensive  and  silent  once  more. 

The  captain,  emboldened  by  her  gentleness,  clasped  her 
waist  without  resistance ;  then  began  softly  to  unlace  the 
poor  child's  corsage,  and  disarranged  her  tucker  to  such  an 
extent  that  the  panting  priest  beheld  the  gipsy's  beautiful 
shoulder  emerge  from  the  gauze,  as  round  and  brown  as  the 
moon  rising  through  the  mists  of  the  horizon. 

The  young  girl  allowed  Phoebus  to  have  his  way.  She  did 
not  appear  to  perceive  it.  The  eye  of  the  bold  captain 
flashed. 

Suddenly  she  turned  towards  him,  — 

"Phoebus,"  she  said,  with  an  expression  of  infinite  love, 
"  instruct  me  in  thy  religion." 

"  My  religion  !  "  exclaimed  the  captain,  bursting  with  laugh- 
ter, "  I  instruct  you  in  my  religion !  Come  et  tonnerre  !  What 
do  you  want  with  nry  religion  ?  " 

"  In  order  that  we  may  be  married,"  she  replied. 

The  captain's  face  assumed  an  expression  of  mingled  sur- 
prise and  disdain,  of  carelessness  and  libertine  passion. 

"  Ah,  bah ! "  said  he,  "  do  people  marry  ?  " 

The  Bohemian  turned  pale,  and  her  head  drooped  sadly  on 
her  breast. 

"My  beautiful  love,"  resumed  Phoebus,  tenderly,  "what 
nonsense  is  this  ?  A  great  thing  is  marriage,  truly !  one  is 


72  NOTRE-DAME. 

none  the  less  loving  for  not  having  spit  Latin  into  a  priest's 
shop ! " 

While  speaking  thus  in  his  softest  voice,  he  approached 
extremely  near  the  gypsy ;  his  caressing  hands  resumed  their 
place  around  her  supple  and  delicate  waist,  his  eye  flashed 
more  and  more,  and  everything  announced  that  Monsieur 
Phosbus  was  on  the  verge  of  one  of  those  moments  when 
Jupiter  himself  commits  so  many  follies  that  Homer  is 
obliged  to  summon  a  cloud  to  his  rescue. 

But  Dom  Claude  saw  everything.  The  door  was  made  of 
thoroughly  rotten  cask  staves,  which  left  large  apertures  for 
the  passage  of  his  hawklike  gaze.  This  brown-skinned,  broad- 
shouldered  priest,  hitherto  condemned  to'  the  austere  virginity 
of  the  cloister,  was  quivering  and  boiling  in  the  presence  of 
this  night  scene  of  love  and  voluptuousness.  This  young  and 
beautiful  girl  given  over  in  disarray  to  the  ardent  young  man, 
made  melted  lead  flow  in  his  veins  ;  his  eyes  darted  with  sen- 
sual jealousy  beneath  all  those  loosened  pins.  Any  one  who 
could,  at  that  moment,  have  seen  the  face  of  the  unhappy  man 
glued  to  the  wormeaten  bars,  would  have  thought  that  he 
beheld  the  face  of  a  tiger  glaring  from  the  depths  of  a  cage 
at  some  jackal  devouring  a  gazelle.  His  eye  shone  like  a 
candle  through  the  cracks  of  the  door. 

All  at  once,  Phoebus,  with  a  rapid  gesture,  removed  the 
gypsy's  gorgerette.  The  poor  child,  who  had  remained  pale 
and  dreamy,  awoke  with  a  start ;  she  recoiled  hastily  from  the 
enterprising  officer,  and,  casting  a  glance  at  her  bare  neck 
and  shoulders,  red,  confused,  mute  with  shame,  she  crossed 
her  two  beautiful  arms  on  her  breast  to  conceal  it.  Had  it 
not  been  for  the  flame  which  burned  in  her  cheeks,  at  the 
sight  of  her  so  silent  and  motionless,  one  would  have 
declared  her  a  statue  of  Modesty.  Her  eyes  were  lowered. 

But  the  captain's  gesture  had  revealed  the  mysterious  amu- 
let which  she  wore  about  her  neck. 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  he  said,  seizing  this  pretext  to  approach 
once  more  the  beautiful  creature  whom  he  had  just  alarmed. 

"Don't  touch  it!"  she  replied,  quickly,  "'tis  my  guardian. 
It  will  make  me  find  my  family  again,  if  I  remain  worthy 


WINDOWS    WHICH   OPEN  ON   THE  RIVER.  73 

to  do  so.  Oh,  leave  me,  monsieur  le  capitaine !  My  mother ! 
My  poor  mother !  My  mother !  Where  art  thou  ?  Come  to 
my  rescue !  Have  pity,  Monsieur  Phoebus,  give  me  back  my 
gorgerette ! " 

Phoebus  retreated  and  said  in  a  cold  tone,  — 
"  Oh,  mademoiselle  !  I  see  plainly  that  you  do  not  love  me !  " 
"  I  do  not  love  him  ! "  exclaimed  the  unhappy  child,  and  at 
the  same  time  she  clung  to  the  captain,  whom  she  drew  to  a 
seat  beside  her.  "  I  do  not  love  thee,  my  Phoebus  ?  What 
art  thou  saying,  wicked  man,  to  break  my  heart  ?  Oh,  take 
me  !  take  all !  do  what  you  will  with  me,  I  am  thine.  What 
matters  to  me  the  amulet !  What  matters  to  me  my  mother ! 
'Tis  thou  who  art  my  mother  since  I  love  thee!  Phoebus, 
my  beloved  Phoebus,  dost  thou  see  me  ?  "Tis  I.  Look  at  me ; 
'tis  the  little  one  whom  thou  wilt  surely  not  repulse,  who 
comes,  who  comes  herself  to  seek  thee.  My  soul,  my  life,  my 
body,  my  person,  all  is  one  thing  —  which  is  thine,  my  captain. 
Well,  no  !  We  will  not  marry,  since  that  displeases  thee ;  and 
then,  what  am  I  ?  a  miserable  girl  of  the  gutters ;  whilst 
thou,  my  Phoebus,  art  a  gentleman.  A  fine  thing,  truly!  A 
dancer  wed  an  officer  !  I  was  mad.  No,  Phoebus,  no ;  I  will  be 
thy  mistress,  thy  amusement,  thy  pleasure,  when  thou  wilt ; 
a  girl  who  shall  belong  to  thee.  I  was  only  made  for  that, 
soiled,  despised,  dishonored,  but  what  matters  it  ' — beloved. 
I  shall  be  the  proudest  and  the  most  joyous  of  women.  And 
when  I  grow  old  or  ugly,  Phoebus,  when  I  am  no  longer  good 
to  love  you,  you  will  suffer  me  to  serve  you  still.  Others 
will  embroider  scarfs  for  you;  'tis  I,  the  servant,  who  will 
care  for  them.  You  will  let  me  polish  your  spurs,  brush  your 
doublet,  dust  your  riding-boots.  You  will  have  that  pity, 
will  you  not,  Phoebus  ?  Meanwhile,  take  me !  h  re,  Phoebus, 
all  this  belongs  to  thee,  only  love  me !  We  gypsies  need  only 
air  and  love." 

So  saying,  she  threw  her  arms  round  the  officer's  neck ;  she 
looked  up  at  him,  supplicatingly,  with  a  beautiful  smile,  and 
all  in  tears.  Her  delicate  neck  rubbed  against  his  cloth 
doublet  with  its  rough  embroideries.  She  writhed  on  her 
knees,  her  beautiful  body  half  naked.  The  intoxicated  cap- 


74  NOTBE-DAME. 

tain  pressed  his  ardent  lips  to  those  lovely  African  shoulders. 
The  young  girl,  her  eyes  bent  on  the  ceiling,  as  she  leaned 
backwards,  quivered,  all  palpitating,  beneath  this  kiss. 

All  at  once,  above  Phcebus's  head  she  beheld  another  head ; 
a  green,  livid,  convulsed  face,  with  the  look  of  a  lost  soul ; 
near  this  face  was  a  hand  grasping  a  poniard.  It  was  the 
face  and  hand  of  the  priest ;  he  had  broken  the  door  and  he 
was  there.  Phoebus  could  not  see  him.  The  young  girl 
remained  motionless,  frozen  with  terror,  dumb,  beneath  that 
terrible  apparition,  like  a  dove  which  should  raise  its  head 
at  the  moment  when  the  hawk  is  gazing^  into  her  nest  with  its 
round  eyes. 

She  could  not  even  utter  a  cry.  She  saw  the  poniard  de- 
scend upon  Phoebus,  and  rise  again,  reeking. 

"  Maledictions  ! "  said  the  captain,  and  fell. 

She  fainted. 

At  the  moment  when  her  eyes  closed,  when  all  feeling  van- 
ished in  her,  she  thought  that  she  felt  a  touch  of  fire  im- 
printed upon  her  lips,  a  kiss  more  burning  than  the  red-hot 
iron  of  the  executioner. 

When  she  recovered  her  senses,  she  was  surrounded  by  sol- 
diers of  the  watch,  they  were  carrying  away  the  captain, 
bathed  in  his  blood,  the  priest  had  disappeared ;  the  window 
»  at  the  back  of  the  room  which  opened  on  the  river  was 
•wide  open ;  they  picked  up  a  cloak  which  they  supposed  to 
belong  to  the  officer,  and  she  heard  them  saying  around  her,  — 

"  'Tis  a  sorceress,  who  has  stabbed  a  captain." 


BOOK  EIGHTH. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  CROWN  CHANGED  INTO  A  DRY  LEAF. 

GRINGOIRE  and  the  entire  Court  of  Miracles  were  suffering 
mortal  anxiety.  For  a  whole  month  they  had  not  known  what 
had  become  of  la  Esmeralda,  which  greatly  pained  the  Duke  of 
Egypt  and  his  friends  the  vagabonds,  nor  what  had  become  oi 
the  goat,  which  redoubled  Gringoire's  grief.  One  evening  the 
gypsy  had  disappeared,  and  since  that  time  had  given  no  signs 
of  life.  All  search  had  proved  fruitless.  Some  tormenting 
bootblacks  had  told  Gringoire  about  meeting  her  that  same 
evening  near  the  Pont  Saint-Michel,  going  off  with  an  officer ; 
but  this  husband,  after  the  fashion  of  Bohemia,  was  an  incred- 
ulous philosopher,  and  besides,  he,  better  than  any  one  else, 
knew  to  what  a  point  his  wife  was  virginal.  He  had  been 
able  to  form  a  judgment  as  to  the  unconquerable  modesty 
resulting  from  the  combined  virtues  of  the  amulet  and  the 
gypsy,  and  he  had  mathematically  calculated  the  resistance  of 
that  chastity  to  the  second  power.  Accordingly,  he  was  at 
ease  on  that  score. 

Still  he  could  not  understand  this  disappearance.  It  was 
a  profound  sorrow.  He  Avould  have  grown  thin  over  it,  had 
that  been  possible.  He  had  forgotten  everything,  even  his 
literary  tastes,  even  his  great  work,  De  figuris  reyularibus  et 

75 


76  NOTRE-DAME. 

irregularibus,  which  it  was  his  intention  to  have  printed  with 
the  first  money  which  he  should  procure  (for  he  had  raved 
over  printing,  ever  since  he  had  seen  the  "Didascalon"  of 
Hugues  de  Saint  Victor,  printed  with  the  celebrated  characters 
of  Vindelin  de  Spire). 

One  day,  as  he  was  passing  sadly  before  the  criminal  Tour- 
nelle,  he  perceived  a  considerable  crowd  at  one  of  the  gates 
of  the  Palais  de  Justice. 

"  What  is  this  ? "  he  inquired  of  a  young  man  who  was 
coming  out. 

"I  know  not,  sir,"  replied  the  young  man.  "'Tis  said  that 
they  are  trying  a  woman  who  hath  assassinated  a  gen- 
darme. It  appears  that  there  is  sorcery  at  the  bottom  of  it, 
the  archbishop  and  the  official  have  intervened  in  the  case, 
and  my  brother,  who  is  the  archdeacon  of  Josas,  can  think 
of  nothing  else.  Now,  I  wished  to  speak  with  him,  but  I 
have  not  been  able  to  reach  him  because  of  the  throng,  which 
vexes  me  greatly,  as  I  stand  in  need  of  money." 

"Alas!  sir,"  said  Gringoire,  "I  would  that  I  could  lend 
you  some,  but  my  breeches  are  worn  to  holes,  and  'tis  not 
crowns  which  have  done  it." 

He  dared  not  tell  the  young  man  that  he  was  acquainted 
with  his  brother  the  archdeacon,  to  whom  he  had  not  returned 
after  the  scene  in  the  church ;  a  negligence  which  embarrassed 
him. 

The  scholar  went  his  way,  and  Gringoire  set  out  to  follow 
the  crowd  which  was  mounting  the  staircase  of  the  great 
chamber.  In  his  opinion,  there  was  nothing  like  the  specta- 
cle of  a  criminal  process  for  dissipating  melancholy,  so  exhil- 
aratingly  stupid  are  judges  as  a  rule.  The  populace  which  he 
had  joined  walked  and  elbowed  in  silence.  After  a  slow  and 
tiresome  march  through  a  long,  gloomy  corridor,  which  wound 
through  the  court-house  like  the  intestinal  canal  of  the  ancient 
edifice,  he  arrived  near  a  low  door,  opening  upon  a  hall  which 
his  lofty  stature  permitted  him  to  survey  with  a  glance  over 
the  waving  heads  of  the  rabble. 

The  hall  was  vast  and  gloomy,  which  latter  fact  made  it 
appear  still  more  spacious.  The  day  was  declining ;  the  long, 


THE  CROWN   CHANGED  INTO  A  DRY  LEAF.          77 

pointed  windows  permitted  only  a  pale  ray  of  light  to  enter, 
which  was  extinguished  before  it  reached  the  vaulted  ceiling, 
an  enormous  trellis-work  of  sculptured  beams,  whose  thousand 
figures  seemed  to  move  confusedly  in  the  shadows,  many  can- 
dles were  already  lighted  here  and  there  on  tables,  and  beam- 
ing on  the  heads  of  clerks  buried  in  masses  of  documents. 
The  anterior  portion  of  the  hall  was  occupied  by  the  crowd ; 
on  the  right  and  left  were  magistrates  and  tables  ;  at  the  end, 
upon  a  platform,  a  number  of  judges,  whose  rear  rank  sank 
into  the  shadows,  sinister  and  motionless  faces.  The  walls 
were  sown  with  innumerable  fleurs-de-lis.  A  large  figure  of 
Christ  might  be  vaguely  descried  above  the  judges,  and 
everywhere  there  were  pikes  and  halberds,  upon  whose  points 
the  reflection  of  the  candles  placed  tips  of  fire. 

"Monsieur,"  Gringoire  inquired  of  one  of  his  neighbors, 
"  who  are  all  those  persons  ranged  yonder,  like  prelates  in 
council  ?  " 

"Monsieur,"  replied  the  neighbor,. "those  on  the  right  are 
the  counsellors  of  the  grand  chamber;  those  on  the  left,  the 
councillors  of  inquiry ;  the  masters  in  black  gowns,  the  mes- 
sires  in  red." 

"  Who  is  that  big  red  fellow,  yonder  above  them,  who  is 
sweating  ?  "  pursued  Gringoire. 

"  It  is  monsieur  the  president." 

"  And  those  sheep  behjnd  him  ?  "  continued  Gringoire,  who 
as  we  have  seen,  did  not  love  the  magistracy,  which  arose, 
possibly,  from  the  grudge  which  he  cherished  against  the 
Palais  de  Justice  since  his  dramatic  misadventure. 

"  They  are  messieurs  the  masters  of  requests  of  the  king's 
household." 

"  And  that  boar  in  front  of  him  ?  " 

"  He  is  monsieur  the  clerk  of  the  Court  of  Parliament." 

"  And  that  crocodile  on  the  right  ?  " 

"  Master  Philippe  Lheulier,  advocate  extraordinary  of  the 
king." 

"  And  that  big,  black  tom-cat  on  the  left  ?  " 

"  Master  Jacques  Charmolue,  procurator  of  the  king  in  the 
Ecclesiastical  Court,  with  the  gentlemen  of  the  officialty." 


78  NOTRE-DAME. 

"  Come  now,  monsieur,"  said  Gringoire,  "  pray  what  are  all 
those  fine  fellows  doing  yonder  ?  " 

"  They  are  judging." 

"  Judging  whom  ?     I  do  not  see  the  accused." 

"'Tis  a  woman,  sir.  You  cannot  see  her.  She  has  her 
back  turned  to  us,  and  she  is  hidden  from  us  by  the  crowd. 
Stay,  yonder  she  is,  where  you  see  a  group  of  partisans." 

"  Who  is  the  woman  ?  "  asked  Gringoire.  "  Do  you  know 
her  name  ?  " 

"  No,  monsieur,  I  have  but  just  arrived.  I  merely  assume 
that  there  is  some  sorcery  about  it,  since  the  official  is  present 
at  the  trial." 

"  Come  ! "  said  our  philosopher,  "  we  are  going  to  see  all 
these  magistrates  devour  human  flesh.  'Tis  as  good  a  specta- 
cle as  any  other." 

"Monsieur,"  remarked  his  neighbor,  "think  you  not,  that 
Master  Jacques  Charmolue  has  a  very  sweet  air  ?  " 

"  Hum  ! "  replied  Gringoire.  "  I  distrust  a  sweetness  which 
hath  pinched  nostrils  and  thin  lips." 

Here  the  bystanders  imposed  silence  upon  the  two  chat- 
terers. They  were  listening  to  an  important  deposition. 

"  Messeigneurs,"  said  an  old  woman  in  the  middle  of  the 
hall,  whose  form  was  so  concealed  beneath  her  garments  that 
one  would  have  pronounced  her  a  walking  heap  of  rags ; 
"  Messeigneurs,  the  thing  is  as  true  as  that  I  am  la  Falourdel, 
established  these  forty  years  at  the  Pont  Saint  Michel,  and 
paying  regularly  my  rents,  lord's  dues,  and  quit  rents ;  at  the 
gate  opposite  the  house  of  Tassin-Caillart,  the  dyer,  which  is 
on  the  side  up  the  river  —  a  poor  old  woman  now,  but  a  pretty 
maid  in  former  days,  my  lords.  Some  one  said  to  me  lately, 
'  La  Falourdel,  don't  use  your  spinning-wheel  too  much  in  the 
evening ;  the  devil  is  fond  of  combing  the  distaffs  of  old 
women  with  his  horns.  'Tis  certain  that  the  surly  monk  who 
was  round  about  the  temple  last  year,  now  prowls  in  the  City. 
Take  care,  La  Falourdel,  that  he  doth  not  knock  at  your 
door.'  One  evening  I  was  spinning  on  my  wheel,  there  comes 
a  knock  at  my  door ;  I  ask  who  it  is.  They  swear.  I  open. 
Two  men  enter.  A  man  in  black  and  a  handsome  officer.  Of 


THE  CEOWN   CHANGED   INTO  A   DRY  LEAK         79 

the  black  man  nothing  could  be  seen  but  his  eyes,  two  coals 
of  fire.  All  the  rest  was  hat  and  cloak.  They  say  to  me,  — 
'The  Sainte-Marthe  chamber.'  —  'Tis  my  upper  chamber,  my 
lords,  my  cleanest.  They  give  me  a  crown.  I  put  the  crown 
in  my  drawer,  and  I  say :  '  This  shall  go  to  buy  tripe  at  the 
slaughter-house  of  la  Gloriette  to-morrow.'  We  go  up  stairs. 
On  arriving  at  the  upper  chamber,  and  while  my  back  is 
turned,  the  black  man  disappears.  That  dazed  me  a  bit.  The 
officer,  who  was  as  handsome  as  a  great  lord,  goes  down 
stairs  again  with  me.  He  goes  out.  In  about  the  time  it 
takes  to  spin  a  quarter  of  a  handful  of  flax,  he  returns  with  a 
beautiful  young  girl,  a  doll  who  would  have  shone  like  the  sun 
had  she  been  coiffed.  She  had  with  her  a  goat ;  a  big  billy- 
goat,  whether  black  or  white,  I  no  longer  remember.  That 
set  me  to  thinking.  The  girl  does  not  concern  me,  but  the 
goat !  I  love  not  those  beasts,  they  have  a  beard  and  horns. 
They  are  so  like  a  man.  And  then,  they  smack  of  the  witches, 
sabbath.  However,  I  say  nothing.  I  had  the  crown.  That 
is  right,  is  it  not,  Monsieur  Judge  ?  I  show  the  captain  and 
the  wench  to  the  upper  chamber,  and  I  leave  them  alone; 
that  is  to  say,  with  the  goat.  I  go  down  and  set  to  spinning 
again  —  I  must  inform  you  that  my  house  has  a  ground  floor 
and  story  above.  I  know  not  why  I  fell  to  thinking  of  the 
surly  monk  whom  the  goat  had  put  into  my  head  again,  and 
then  the  beautiful  girl  was  rather  strangely  decked  out.  All 
at  onco,  I  hear  a  cry  upstairs,  and  something  falls  on  the  floor 
and  the  window  opens.  I  run  to  mine  which  is  beneath  it, 
and  I  behold  a  black  mass  pass  before  my  eyes  and  fall  into 
the  water.  It  was  a  phantom  clad  like  a  priest.  It  was  a 
moonlight  night.  I  saw  him  quite  plainly.  He  was  swim- 
ming in  the  direction  of  the  city.  Then,  all  of  a  tremble,  I 
call  the  watch.  The  gentlemen  of  the  police  enter,  and  not 
knowing  just  at  the  first  moment  what  the  matter  was,  and 
being  merry,  they  beat  me.  I  explain  to  them.  We  go  up 
stairs,  and  what  do  we  find  ?  my  poor  chamber  all  blood,  the 
captain  stretched  out  at  full  length  with  a  dagger  in  his  neck, 
the  girl  pretending  to  be  dead,  and  the  goat  all  in  a  fright. 
'Pretty  work!'  I  say,  'I  shall  have  to  wash  that  floor  foi 


80  NOTRE-DAME. 

more  than  a  fortnight.  It  will  have  to  be  scraped ;  it  will  be 
a  terrible  job.'  They  carried  off  the  officer,  poor  young  man, 
and  the  wench  with  her  bosom  all  bare.  But  wait,  the  worst 
is  that  on  the  next  day,  when  I  wanted  to  take  the  crown  to 
buy  tripe,  I  found  a  dead  leaf  in  its  place." 

The  old  woman  ceased.  A  murmur  of  horror  ran  through 
the  audience. 

"  That  phantom,  that  goat,  —  all  smacks  of  magic/'  said  one 
of  Gringore's  neighbors. 

"  And  that  dry  leaf ! "  added  another. 

"No  doubt  about  it,"  joined  in  a  third,  "  she  is  a  witch  who 
has  dealings  with  the  surly  monk,  for  the  purpose  of  plunder- 
ing officers." 

Gringoire  himself  was  not  disinclined  to  regard  this  as 
altogether  alarming  and  probable. 

" Goody  Falourdel,"  said  the  president  majestically,  "have 
you  nothing  more  to  communicate  to  the  court  ?  " 

"No,  monseigneur,"  replied  the  crone,  "except  that  the 
report  has  described  my  house  as  a  hovel  and  stinking ;  which 
is  an  outrageous  fashion  of  speaking.  The  houses  on  the 
bridge  are  not  imposing,  because  there  are  such  multitudes  of 
people ;  but,  nevertheless,  the  butchers  continue  to  dwell 
there,  who  are  wealthy  folk,  and  married  to  very  proper  and 
handsome  women." 

The  magistrate  who  had  reminded  Gringoire  of  a  crocodile 
rose, — 

"  Silence ! "  said  he.  "  I  pray  the  gentlemen  not  to  lose 
sight  of  the  fact  that  a  dagger  was  found  on  the  person  of 
the  accused.  Goody  Falourdel,  have  you  brought  that  leaf 
into  which  the  crown  which  the  demon  gave  you  was  trans- 
formed ?  " 

"  Yes,  monseigneur,"  she  replied ;  "  I  found  it  again.  Here 
it  is." 

A  bailiff  handed  the  dead  leaf  to  the  crocodile,  who  made  a 
doleful  shake  of  the  head,  and  passed  it  on  to  the  president, 
who  gave  it  to  the  procurator  of  the  king  in  the  ecclesiasti- 
cal court,  and  thus  it  made  the  circuit  of  the  hall. 

"It  is  a  birch  leaf,"  said  Master  Jacques  Charmolur.  "A 
fresh  proof  of  magic." 


THE  CROWN  CHANGED   INTO  A   DRY  LEAF.          81 

A  counsellor  took  up  the  word. 

"  Witness,  two  men  went  upstairs  together  in  your  house : 
the  black  man,  whom  you  first  saw  disappear  and  afterwards 
swimming  in  the  Seine,  with  his  priestly  garments,  and  the 
officer.  Which  of  the  two  handed  you  the  crown  ?  " 

The  old  woman  pondered  for  a  moment  and  then  said,  — 

"  The  officer." 

A  murmur  ran  through  the  crowd. 

"  Ah ! "  thought  G-ringoire,"  this  makes  some  doubt  in  my 
mind." 

But  Master  Philippe  Lheulier,  advocate  extraordinary  to  the 
king,  interposed  once  more. 

"I  will  recall  to  these  gentlemen,  that  in  the  deposition 
taken  at  his  bedside,  the  assassinated  officer,  while  declaring 
that  he  had  a  vague  idea  when  the  black  man  accosted  him 
that  the  latter  might  be  the  surly  monk,  added  that  the  phan- 
tom had  pressed  him  eagerly  to  go  and  make  acquaintance 
with  the  accused ;  and  upon  his,  the  captain's,  remarking  that 
he  had  no  money,  he  had  given  him  the  crown  which  the  said 
officer  paid  to  la  Falourdel.  Hence,  that  crown  is  the  money 
of  hell." 

This  conclusive  observation  appeared  to  dissipate  all  the 
doubts  of  Gringoire  and  the  other  sceptics  in  the  audience. 

"  You  have  the  documents,  gentlemen,"  added  the  king's 
advocate,  as  he  took  his  seat ;  "you  can  consult  the  testimony 
of  Phoebus  de  Chfiteaupers." 

At  that  name,  the  accused  sprang  up,  her  head  rose  above 
the  throng.  Gringoire  with  horror  recognized  la  Esmeralda. 

She  was  pale  ;  her  tresses,  formerly  so  gracefully  braided 
and  spangled  with  sequins,  hung  in  disorder ;  her  lips  were 
blue,  her  hollow  eyes  were  terrible.  Alas ! 

"  Phoebus  !  "  she  said,  in  bewilderment ;  "  where  is  he  ?  O 
messeigneurs !  before  you  kill  me,  tell  me,  for  pity  sake, 
whether  he  still  lives  ?  " 

"Hold  your  tongue,  woman/'  replied  the  president,  "that  is 

no  affair  of  ours." 

"  Oh  !  for  mercy's  sake,  tell  me  if  he  is  alive ! "  she  re- 
peated, clasping  her  beautiful  emaciated  hands ;  and  the  sound 
of  her  chains  in  contact  with  her  dress,  was  heard. 


82  NOTRE-DAME. 

"  Well ! "  said  the  king's  advocate  roughly,  "  he  is  dying. 
Are  you  satisfied  ?  " 

The  unhappy  girl  fell  back  on  her  criminal's  seat,  speech- 
less, tearless,  white  as  a  wax  figure. 

The  president  bent  down  to  a  man  at  his  feet,  who  wore  a 
gold  cap  and  a  black  gown,  a  chain  on  his  neck  and  a  wand  in 
his  hand. 

"  Bailiff,  bring  in  the  second  accused." 

All  eyes  turned  towards  a  small  door,  which  opened,  and,  to 
the  great  agitation  of  Gringoire,  gave  passage  to  a  pretty  goat 
with  horns  and  hoofs  of  gold.  The  elegant  beast  halted  for  a 
moment  on  the  threshold,  stretching  out  its  neck  as  though, 
perched  on  the  summit  of  a  rock,  it  had  before  its  eyes  an  im- 
mense horizon.  Suddenly  it  caught  sight  of  the  gypsy  girl, 
and  leaping  over  the  table  and  the  head  of  a  clerk,  in  two 
bounds,  it  was  at  her  knees ;  then  it  rolled  gracefully  on  its 
mistress's  feet,  soliciting  a  word  or  a  caress  ;  but  the  accused 
remained  motionless,  and  poor  Djali  himself  obtained  not  a 
glance. 

"Eh,  why —  'tis  my  villanous  beast,"  said  old  Falourdel, 
"  I  recognize  the  two  perfectly  ! " 

Jacques  Charmolue  interfered. 

"  If  the  gentlemen  please,  we  will  proceed  to  the  examina- 
tion of  the  goat."  He  was,  in  fact,  the  second  criminal. 
Nothing  more  simple  in  those  days  than  a  suit  of  sorcery  in- 
stituted against  an  animal.  We  find,  among  others  in  the 
accounts  of  the  provost's  office  for  1466,  a  curious  detail  con- 
cerning the  expenses  of  the  trial  of  Gillet-Soulart  and  his  sow. 
"  executed  for  their  demerits,"  at  Corbeil.  Everything  is  there, 
the  cost  of  the  pens  in  which  to  place  the  sow,  the  five  hun- 
dred bundles  of  brushwood  purchased  at  the  port  of  j\Iorsant, 
the  three  pints  of  wine  and  the  bread,  the  last  repast  of  the 
victim  fraternally  shared  by  the  executioner,  down  to  the 
eleven  days  of  guard  and  food  for  the  sow,  at  eight  deniers 
parisis  each.  Sometimes,  they  went  even  further  than  ani- 
mals. The  capitularies  of  Charlemagne  and  of  Louis  le 
Debonnaire  impose  severe  penalties  on  fiery  phantoms  which 
presume  to  appear  in  the  air. 


THE  GROWN   CHANGED  INTO  A    LEY  LEAF.         83 

Meanwhile  the  procurator  had  exclaimed:  "If  the  demon 
which  possesses  this  goat,  and  which  has  resisted  all  exor- 
cisms, persists  in  its  deeds  of  witchcraft,  if  it  alarms  the  court 
with  them,  we  warn  it  that  we  shall  be  forced  to  put  in 
requisition  against  it  the  gallows  or  the  stake. 

Gringoire  broke  out  into  a  cold  perspiration.  Charmolue 
took  from  the  table  the  gypsy's  tambourine,  and  presenting  it 
to  the  goat,  in  a  certain  manner,  asked  the  latter,  — 

"  What  o'clock  is  it  ?  " 

The  goat  looked  at  it  with  an  intelligent  eye,  raised  its 
gilded  hoof,  and  struck  seven  blows. 

It  was,  in  fact,  seven  o'clock.  A  movement  of  terror  ran 
through  the  crowd. 

Gringoire  could  not  endure  it. 

"  He  is  destroying  himself ! "  he  cried  aloud ;  "  You  see 
well  that  he  does  not  know  what  he  is  doing." 

"  Silence  among  the  louts  at  the  end  of  the  hall ! "  said  the 
bailiff  sharply. 

Jacques  Charmolue,  by  the  aid  of  the  same  mancEuvres  of 
the  tambourine,  made  the  goat  perform  many  other  tricks 
connected  with  the  date  of  the  day,  the  month  of  the  year, 
etc.,  which  the  reader  has  already  witnessed.  And,  by  virtue 
of  an  optical  illusion  peculiar  to  judicial  proceedings,  these 
same  spectators  who  had,  probably,  more  than  once  applauded 
in  the  public  square  Djali's  innocent  magic  were  terrified  by 
it  beneath  the  roof  of  the  Palais  de  Justice.  The  goat  was 
undoubtedly  the  devil. 

It  was  far  worse  when  the  procurator  of  the  king,  having 
emptied  upon  a  floor  a  certain  bag  filled  with  movable  letters, 
which  Djali  wore  round  his  neck,  they  beheld  the  goat  extract 
with  his  hoof  from  the  scattered  alphabet  the  fatal  name  of 
Phailus.  The  witchcraft  of  which  the  captain  had  been  the 
victim  appeared  irresistibly  demonstrated,  and  in  the  eyes  of 
all,  the  gypsy,  that  ravishing  dancer,  who  had  so  often  daz- 
zled the  passers-by  with  her  grace,  was  no  longer  anything 
but  a  frightful  vampire. 

However,  she  betrayed  no  sign  of  life;  neither  Djali's 
graceful  evolutions,  nor  the  menaces  of  the  court,  nor  the  sup- 


84  NOTRE-DAME. 

pressed  imprecations  of  the  spectators  any  longer  reached  her 
mind. 

In  order  to  arouse  her,  a  police  officer  was  obliged  to  shake 
her  unmercifully,  and  the  president  had  to  raise  his  voice, — 

"  Girl,  you  are  of  the  Bohemian  race,  addicted  to  deeds  of 
witchcraft.  You,  in  complicity  with  the  bewitched  goat  im- 
plicated in  this  suit,  during  the  night  of  the  twenty-ninth 
of  March  last,  murdered  and  stabbed,  in  concert  with  the 
powers  of  darkness,  by  the  aid  of  charms  and  underhand  prac- 
tices, a  captain  of  the  king's  arches  of  the  watch,  Phoebus  de 
Chateaupers.  Do  you  persist  in  denying  it  ?  " 

"  Horror ! "  exclaimed  the  young  girl,  hiding  her  face  in  her 
hands.  "  My  Phoebus  !  Oh,  this  is  hell ! " 

"  Do  you  persist  in  your  denial  ?  "  demanded  the  president 
coldly. 

"  Do  I  deny  it  ?  "  she  said  with  terrible  accents ;  and  she 
rose  with  flashing  eyes. 

The  president  continued  squarely,  — 

"  Then  how  do  you  explain  the  facts  laid  to  your  charge  ?  " 

She  replied  in  a  broken  voice,  — 

"  I  have  already  told  you.  I  do  not  know.  'Twas  a  priest, 
a  priest  whom  I  do  not  know ;  an  infernal  priest  who  pursues 
me ! " 

"That  is  it,"  retorted  the  judge  ;  "the  surly  monk." 

"  Oh,  gentlemen !  have  mercy  !  I  am  but  a  poor  girl  —  " 

"  Of  Egypt,"  said  the  judge. 

Master  Jacques  Charmolue  interposed  sweetly,  — 

"  In  view  of  the  sad  obstinacy  of  the  accused,  I  demand  the 
application  of  the  torture." 

"  Granted,"  said  the  president. 

The  unhappy  girl  quivered  in  every  limb.  But  she  rose  at 
the  command  of  the  men  with  partisans,  and  walked  with  a 
tolerably  firm  step,  preceded  by  Charmolue  and  the  priests  of 
the  officiality,  between  two  rows  of  halberds,  towards  a 
medium-sized  door  which  suddenly  opened  and  closed  again 
behind  her,  and  which  produced  upon  the  grief-stricken  Grin- 
goire  the  effect  of  a  horrible  mouth  which  had  just  devoured 
her. 


THE  CEO\\'N  CHANGED  INTO  A   DRY  LEAF. 


85 


When  she  disappeared,  they  heard  a  plaintive  bleating ;  it 
was  the  little  goat  mourning. 

The  sitting  of  the  court  was  suspended.  A  counsellor  hav- 
ing remarked  that  the  gentlemen  were  fatigued,  and  that  it 
would  be  a  long  time  to  wait  until  the  torture  was  at  an  end, 
the  president  replied  that  a  magistrate  must  know  how  to 
sacrifice  himself  to  his  duty. 

"What  an  annoying  and  vexatious  hussy,"  said  an  aged 
judge,  "to  get  herself  put  to  the  question  when  one  has  not 
supped ! " 


CHAPTER  II. 

CONTINUATION    OF    THE    CROWN    WHICH    WAS    CHANGED    INTO    A 

DRY    LEAF, 

AFTER  ascending  and  descending  several  steps  in  the  corri- 
dors, which  were  so  dark  that  they  were  lighted  by  lamps; 
at  mid-day,  La  Esmeralda,  still  surrounded  by  her  lugubrious 
escort,  was  thrust  by  the  police  into  a  gloomy  chamber. 
This  chamber,  circular  in  form,  occupied  the  ground  floor  of 
one  of  those  great  towers,  which,  even  in  our  own  century, 
still  pierce  through  the  layer  of  modern  edifices  with  which 
modern  Paris  has  covered  ancient  Paris.  There  were  no  win- 
dows to  this  cellar;  no  other  opening  than  the  entrance, 
which  was  low,  and  closed  by  an  enormous  iron  door.  Never- 
theless, light  was  not  lacking ;  a  furnace  had  been  constructed 
in  the  thickness  of  the  wall ;  a  large  fire  Avas  lighted  there, 
which  filled  the  vault  with  its  crimson  reflections  and 
deprived  a  miserable  candle,  which  stood  in  one  corner,  of 
all  radiance.  The  iron  grating  which  served  to  close  the 
oven,  being  raised  at  that  moment,  allowed  only  a  view  at 
the  mouth  of  the  flaming  vent-hole  in  the  dark  wall,  the 
lower  extremity  of  its  bars,  like  a  row  of  black  and  pointed 
teeth,  set  flat  apart ;  which  made  the  furnace  resemble  or  ie  of 
those  mouths  of  dragons  which  spout  forth  flames  in  ancient 
legends.  By  the  light  which  escaped  from  it,  the  prisoner 
beheld,  all  about  the  room,  frightful  instruments  whose  use 
she  did  not  understand.  In  the  centre  lay  a  leather  mattress, 

86 


CONTINUATION  OF  THE  CROWN.  87 

placed  almost  flat  upon  the  ground,  over  which  hung  a  strap 
provided  with  a  buckle,  attached  to  a  brass  ring  in  the  mouth 
of  a  flat-nosed  monster  carved  in  the  keystone  of  the  vault. 
Tongs,  pincers,  large  ploughshares,  filled  the  interior  of  the 
furnace,  and  glowed  in  a  confused  heap  on  the  coals.  The 
sanguine  light  of  the  furnace  illuminated  in  the  chamber  only 
a  confused  mass  of  horrible  things. 

This  Tartarus  was  called  simply,  The  Question  Chamber. 

On  the  bed,  in  a  negligent  attitude,  sat  Pierrat  Torterue, 
the  official  torturer.  His  underlings,  two  gnomes  with  square 
faces,  leather  aprons,  and  linen  breeches,  were  moving  the 
iron  instruments  on  the  coals. 

In  vain  did  the  poor  girl  summon  up  her  courage ;  on  enter- 
ing this  chamber  she  was  stricken  with  horror. 

The  sergeants  of  the  bailiff  of  the  courts  drew  up  in  line  on 
one  side,  the  priests  of  the  officiality  on  the  other.  A  clerk, 
inkhorn,  and  a  table  were  in  one  corner. 

Master  Jacques  Charmolue  approached   the  gypsy  with  a 
ery  sweet  smile. 

"My  dear  child,"  said  he,  "do  you  still  persist  in  your 
denial  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  in  a  dying  voice. 

"  In  that  case,"  replied  Charmolue,  "  it  will  be  very  painful 
for  us  to  have  to  question  you  more  urgently  than  we  should 
like.  Pray  take  the  trouble  to  seat  yourself  on  this  bed. 
Master  Pierrat,  make  room  for  mademoiselle,  and  close  the 
door." 

Pierrat  rose  with  a  growl. 

"If  I  shut  the  door,"  he  muttered,  "my  fire  will  go  out." 

"  Well,  my  dear  fellow,"  replied  Charmolue,  "  leave  it  open 
then." 

Meanwhile,   la   Esmeralda  had   remained   standing, 
leather  bed  on  which  so  many  unhappy  wretches  had  writhed, 
frightened  her.     Terror  chilled  the  very  marrow  of  her  bones 
she    stood  there  bewildered  and  stupefied.     At  a  sign   from 
Charmolue,  the  two  assistants  took  her  arid  placed  her  in  a 
sitting  posture  on  the  bed.     They  did  her  no  harm  ;  but  when 
these  men  touched  her,  when  that  leather  touched  her,  she  felt 


gg  NOTRE-DAME. 

all  her  blood  retreat  to  her  heart.  She  cast  a  frightened  look 
around  the  chamber.  It  seemed  to  her  as  though  she  beheld 
advancing  from  all  quarters  towards  her,  with  the  intention  of 
crawling  up  her  body  and  biting  and  pinching  her,  all  those 
hideous  implements  of  torture,  which  as  compared  to  the  in- 
struments of  all  sorts  she  had  hitherto  seen,  were  like  what 
bats,  centipedes,  and  spiders  are  among  insects  and  birds. 

"  Where  is  the  physician  ?  "  asked  Charmolue. 

"Here,"  replied  a  black  gown  whom  she  had  not  before 
noticed. 

She  shuddered. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  resumed  the  caressing  voice  of  the  procu- 
crator  of  the  Ecclesiastical  court,  "  for  the  third  time,  do  you 
persist,  in  denying  the  deeds  of  which  you  are  accused  ?  " 

This  time  she  could  only  make  a  sign  with  her  head. 

"  You  persist  ?  "  said  Jacques  Charmolue.  "  Then  it  grieves 
me  deeply,  but  I  must  fulfil  my  office." 

"Monsieur  le  Procureur  du  Roi,"  said  Pierrat  abruptly, 
"  How  shall  we  begin  ?  " 

Charmolue  hesitated  for  a  moment  with  the  ambiguous 
grimace  of  a  poet  in  search  of  a  rhyme. 

"  With  the  boot,"  he  said  at  last. 

The  unfortunate  girl  felt  herself  so  utterly  abandoned  by 
God  and  men,  that  her  head  fell  upon  her  breast  like  an  inert 
thing  which  has  no  power  in  itself. 

The  tormentor  and  the  physician  approached  her  simulta- 
neously. At  the  same  time,  the  two  assistants  began  to  fum- 
ble among  their  hideous  arsenal. 

At  the  clanking  of  their  frightful  irons,  the  unhappy  child 
quivered  like  a  dead  frog  which  is  being  galvanized.  "  Oh  ! " 
she  murmured,  so  low  that  no  one  heard  her ;  "  oh,  my  Phoe- 
bus !  "  Then  she  fell  back  once  more  into  her  immobility  and 
her  marble  silence.  This  spectacle  would  have  rent  any  other 
heart  than  those  of  her  judges.  One  would  have  pronounced 
her  a  poor  sinful  soul,  being  tortured  by  Satan  beneath  the 
scarlet  wicket  of  hell.  The  miserable  body  which  that  fright- 
ful swarm  of  saws,  wheels,  and  racks  were  about  to  clasp  in 
their  clutches,  the  being  who  was  about  to  be  manipulated  by 


CONTINUATION  OF  TIIE  CROWN.  gg 

the  harsh  hands  of  executioners  and  pincers,  was  that  gentle, 
white,  fragile  creature,  a  poor  grain  of  millet  which  human  jus- 
tice was  handing  over  to  the  terrible  mills  of  torture  to  grind. 

Meanwhile,  the  callous  hands  of  Pierrat  Torterue's  assist- 
ants had  bared  that  charming  leg,  that  tiny  foot,  which  had  so 
often  amazed  the  passers-by  with  their  delicacy  and  beauty,  in 
the  squares  of  Paris. 

"  'Tis  a  shame  ! "  muttered  the  tormentor,  glancing  at  these 
graceful  and  delicate  forms. 

Had  the  archdeacon  been  present,  he  certainly  would  have 
recalled  at  that  moment  his  symbol  of  the  spider  and  the  fly. 
Soon  the  unfortunate  girl,  through  a  mist  which  spread  before 
her  eyes,  beheld  the  boot  approach ;  she  soon  beheld  her  foot 
encased  between  iron  plates  disappear  in  the  frightful  appara- 
tus. Then  terror  restored  her  strength. 

"  Take  that  off ! "  she  cried  angrily ;  and  drawing  herself 
up,  with  her  hair  all  dishevelled :  "  Mercy ! " 

She  darted  from  the  bed  to  fling  herself  at  the  feet  of  the 
king's  procurator,  but  her  leg  was  fast  in  the  heavy  block  of 
oak  and  iron,  and  she  sank  down  upon  the  boot,  more  crushed 
than  a  bee  with  a  lump  of  lead  on  its  wing, 

At  a  sign  from  Charmolue,  she  was  replaced  on  the  bed,  and 
t\vo  coarse  hands  adjusted  to  her  delicate  waist  the  strap 
which  hung  from  the  ceiling. 

"  For  the  last  time,  do  you  confess  the  facts  in  the  case  ?  " 
demanded  Charmolue,  with  his  imperturbable  benignity. 

"  I  am  innocent." 

"  Then,  mademoiselle,  how  do  you  explain  the  circumstance 
laid  to  your  charge  ?  " 

"  Alas,  monseigneur,  I  do  not  know." 

"  So  you  deny  them  ?  " 

"  All ! " 

"  Proceed,"  said  Charmolue  to  Pierrat. 

Pierrat  turned  the  handle  of  the  screw-jack,  the  boot  was 
contracted,  and  the  unhappy  girl  uttered  one  of  those  horri- 
ble cries  which  have  no  orthography  in  any  human  language.^ 

"  Stop  !  "  said  Charmolue  to  Pierrat.     "Do  you  confess  ? 
he  said  to  the  gypsy. 


90  NOTRE-DAME. 

"  All ! "  cried  the  wretched  girl.  "  I  confess  !  I  confess  ! 
Mercy ! " 

She  had  not  calculated  her  strength  when  she  faced  the 
torture.  Poor  child,  whose  life  up  to  that  time  had  been  so 
joyous,  so  pleasant,  so  sweet,  the  first  pain  had  conquered  her ! 

"  Humanity  forces  me  to  tell  you,"  remarked  the  king's  pro- 
curator, "  that  in  confessing,  it  is  death  that  you  must  expect." 

"  I  certainly  hope  so ! "  said  she.  And  she  fell  back  upon 
the  leather  bed,  dying,  doubled  up,  allowing  herself  to  hang 
suspended  from  the  strap  buckled  round  her  waist. 

"  Come,  fair  one,  hold  up  a  little,"  said  Master  Pierrat,  rais- 
ing her.  "  You  have  the  air  of  the  lamb  of  the  Golden  Fleece 
which  hangs  from  Monsieur  de  Bourgogne's  neck." 

Jacques  Charmolue  raised  his  voice,  — 

"  Clerk,  write.  Young  Bohemian  maid,  you  confess  your 
participation  in  the  feasts,  witches'  sabbaths,  and  witchcrafts 
of  hell,  with  ghosts,  hags,  and  vampires  ?  Answer." 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  so  low  that  her  words  were  lost  in  her 
breathing. 

"  You  confess  to  having  seen  the  ram  which  Beelzebub 
causes  to  appear  in  the  clouds  to  call  together  the  witches' 
sabbath,  and  which  is  beheld  by  socerers  alone  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"You  confess  to  having  adored  the  heads  of  Bophomet, 
those  abominable  idols  of  the  Templars  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"'To  having  had  habitual  dealings  with  the  devil  under  the 
form  of  a  goat  familiar,  joined  with  you  in  the  suit  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Lastly,  you  avow  and  confess  to  having,  with  the  aid  of 
the  demon,  and  of  the  phantom  vulgarly  known  as  the  surly 
monk,  on  the  night  of  the  twenty-ninth  of  March  last, 
murdered  and  assassinated  a  captain  named  Phoebus  de  Cha- 
teaupers  ?  " 

She  raised  her  large,  staring  eyes  to  the  magistrate,  and 
replied,  as  though  mechanically,  without  convulsion  or  agi- 
tation. — 

«  Yes." 


CONTINUATION    OF  THE   CROWN. 


91 


It  was  evident  that  everything  within  her  was  broken. 

"  Write,  clerk,"  said  Charmolue.  And,  addressing  the  tor- 
turers, "  Release  the  prisoner,  and  take  her  back  to  the 
court." 

When  the  prisoner  had  been  "  unbooted,"  the  procurator  of 
the  ecclesiastical  court  examined  her  foot,  which  was  still 
swollen  with  pain.  "  Come,"  said  he,  "  there's  no  great  harm 
done.  You  shrieked  in  good  season.  You  could  still  dance, 
my  beauty  ! " 

Then  he  turned  to  his  acolytes  of  the  officiality,  — 

"  Behold  justice  enlightened  at  last !  This  is  a  solace, 
gentlemen  !  Madamoiselle  will  bear  us  witness  that  we  hare 
acted  with  all  possible  gentleness." 


CHAPTER    III. 

END    OF    THE    CROWN    WHICH    WAS    TURNED    INTO    A    DRY    LEAK 

WHEN  she  re-entered  the  audience  hall,  pale  and  limping, 
she  was  received  with  a  general  murmur  of  pleasure.  On  the 
part  of  the  audience  there  was  the  feeling  of  impatience  grati- 
fied which  one  experiences  at  the  theatre  at  the  end  of  the 
last  entr'acte  of  the  comedy,  when  the  curtain  rises  and  the 
conclusion  is  about  to  begin.  On  the  part  of  the  judges,  it 
was  the  hope  of  getting  their  suppers  sooner. 

The  little  goat  also  bleated  with  joy.  He  tried  to  run 
towards  his  mistress,  but  they  had  tied  him  to  the  bench. 

Night  was  fully  set  in.  The  candles,  whose  number  had  not 
been  increased,  cast  so  little  light,  that  the  walls  of  the  hall 
could  not  be  seen.  The  shadows  there  enveloped  all  objects 
in  a  sort  of  mist.  A  few  apathetic  faces  of  judges  alone  could 
be  dimly  discerned.  Opposite  them,  at  the  extremity  of  the 
long  hall,  they  could  see  a  vaguely  white  point  standing  out 
against  the  sombre  background.  This  was  the  accused. 

She  had  dragged  herself  to  her  place.  When  Charmolue 
had  installed  himself  in  a  magisterial  manner  in  his  own,  he 
seated  himself,  then  rose  and  said,  without  exhibiting  too 
much  self-complacency  at  his  success,  — "  The  accused  has 
confessed  all." 

"Bohemian  girl,"  the  president  continued,  "have  you 
avowed  all  your  deeds  of  magic,  prostitution,  and  assassina- 
tion on  Phoebus  de  Chateaupers." 

,92 


END   OF  THE  CROWN.  93 

Her  heart  contracted.  She  was  heard  to  sob  amid  the 
darkness. 

"  Any  thing  you  like,"  she  replied  feebly,  "but  kill  me 
quickly  !  " 

"  Monsieur,  procurator  of  the  king  in  the  ecclesiastical 
courts,"  said  the  president,  "  the  chamber  is  ready  to  hear  you 
in  your  charge." 

Master  Charmolue  exhibited  an  alarming  note  book,  and 
began  to  read,  with  many  gestures  and  the  exaggerated  accen- 
tuation of  the  pleader,  an  oration  in  Latin,  wherein  all  the 
proofs  of  the  suit  were  piled  up  in  Ciceronian  periphrases, 
flanked  with  quotations  from  Plautus,  his  favorite  comic 
author.  We  regret  that  we  are  not  able  to  offer  to  our 
readers  this  remarkable  piece.  The  orator  pronounced  it  with 
marvellous  action.  Before  he  had  finished  the  exordium,  the  per- 
spiration was  starting  from  his  brow,  and  his  eyes  from  his  head. 

All  at  once,  in  the  middle  of  a  fine  period,  he  interrupted 
himself,  and  his  glance,  ordinarily  so  gentle  and  even  stupid, 
became  menacing. 

"  Gentlemen,"  he  exclaimed  (this  time  in  French,  for  it  was 
not  in  his  copy  book),  "  Satan  is  so  mixed  up  in  this  affair, 
that  here  he  is  present  at  our  debates,  and  making  sport  of 
their  majesty.  Behold  !  " 

So  saying,  he  pointed  to  the  little  goat,  who,  on  seeing 
Charmolue  gesticulating,  had,  in  point  of  fact,  thought  it 
appropriate  to  do  the  same,  and  had  seated  himself  on  his 
haunches,  reproducing  to  the  best  of  his  ability,  with  his  fore- 
paws  and  his  bearded  head  the  pathetic  pantomine  of  the 
king's  procurator  in  the  ecclesiastical  court.  This  was,  if  the 
reader  remembers,  one  of  his  prettiest  accomplishments.  This 
incident,  this  last  proof,  produced  a  great  effect.  The  goat's 
hoofs  were  tied,  and  the  king's  procurator  resumed  the  thread 
of  his  eloquence. 

It  was  very  long,  but  the  peroration  was  admirable.  Here 
is  the  concluding  phrase ;  let  the  reader  add  the  hoarse  voice 
and  the  breathless  gestures  of  Master  Charmolue,  - 

"Idea,  domni,  cor  am  stryga  demonstrates,  crimine  patente, 
intent ione  criminis  existente,  in  nomine  sanctce  ecdesice 


94  NOTRE-DAMK. 

Domince  Parisiensis  qua;  est  in  saisina  habendl  omnimodam 
altam  et  bassam  justitiam  in  ilia  hac  intemerata  Civitatis  insula, 
tenore  prcesentium  declaremus  nos  requirere, primo,  aliquamdam 
pecuniariam  indemnitatem ;  secundo,  amendationem  honora- 
bilem  ante  portal ium  maximum  Nostrce-Domince,  ecclesice  cathe- 
dralis  ;  tertio,  sententiam  in  virtitte  cujus  ista  styrga  cum  *//>/ 
capella,  seu  in  trivia  vulgariter  dicto  la  Greve,  seu  in  insul<i 
exeunte  in  fluvio  Secance,  juxta  pointam  juardini  regalis,  execu- 
tatcB  sint !  "  * 

He  put  on  his  cap  again  and  seated  himself. 

"  Efieu  !  "  sighed  the  broken-hearted  Gringoire,  "  bassa  lat- 
initas  —  bastard  latin  ! " 

Another  man  in  a  black  gown  rose  near  the  accused ;  he  was 
her  lawyer.  The  judges,  who  were  fasting,  began  to  grumble. 

"  Advocate,  be  brief,"  said  the  president. 

"  Monsieur  the  President,"  replied  the  advocate,  "  since  the 
defendant  has  confessed  the  crime,  I  have  only  one  word  to 
say  to  these  gentlemen.  Here  is  a  text  from  the  Salic  law  ; 
'  If  a  witch  hath  eaten  a  man,  and  if  she  be  convicted  of  it, 
she  shall  pay  a  fine  of  eight  thousand  deniers,  which  amount 
to  two  hundred  sous  of  gold.'  May  it  please  the  chamber 
to  condemn  my  client  to  the  fine  ?  " 

"  An  abrogated  text,"  said  the  advocate  extraordinary  of 
the  king. 

"  Nego,  I  deny  it,"  replied  the  advocate. 

"  Put  it  to  the  vote ! "  said  one  of  the  councillors  ;  "  the 
crime  is  manifest,  and  it  is  late." 

They  proceeded  to  take  a  vote  without  leaving  the  room. 
The  judges  signified  their  assent  without  giving  their  reasons, 
they  were  in  a  hurry.  Their  capped  heads  Avere  seen  uncov- 
ering one  after  the  other,  in  the  gloom,  at  the  lugubrious  ques- 
tion addressed  to  them  by  the  president  in  a  low  voice.  The 
poor  accused  had  the  appearance  of  looking  at  them,  but  her 
troubled  eye  no  longer  saw. 

Then  the  clerk  began  to  write ;  then  he  handed  a  long  parch- 
ment to  the  president. 

*  The  substance  of  this  exordium  is  contained  in  the  president's 
sentence. 


END   OF  THE  CROWN. 


95 


Then  the  unhappy  girl  heard  the  people  moving,  the  pikes 
clashing,  and  a  freezing  voice  saying  to  her,  — 

"  Bohemian  wench,  on  the  day  when  it  shall  seem  good  to 
our  lord  the  king,  at  the  hour  of  noon,  you  will  be  taken  in  a 
tumbrel,  in  your  shift,  with  bare  feet,  and  a  rope  about  your 
neck,  before  the  grand  portal  of  ISTotre-Dame,  and  you  will 
there  make  an  apology  with  a  wax  torch  of  the  weight  of 
two  pounds  in  your  hand,  and  thence  you  will  be  conducted  to 
the  Place  de  Greve,  where  you  will  be  hanged  and  strangled 
on  the  town  gibbet ;  and  likewise  your  goat ;  and  you  will  pay 
to  the  official  three  lions  of  gold,  in  reparation  of  the  crimes 
by  you  committed  and  by  you  confessed,  of  sorcery  and 
magic,  debauchery  and  murder,  upon  the  person  of  the  Sieur 
Phoebus  de  Chateaupers.  May  God  have  mercy  on  your 
soul ! " 


"  Oh !  'tis  a  dream  ! "  she  murmured 
hands  bearing  her  away. 


and   she  felt  rough 


CHAPTER  IV. 

LASCIATE  OGNI  SPERANZA  —  LKAVE  ALL  HOPE  BEHIND,  YE 
WHO  ENTER  HERE. 

IN  the  Middle  Ages,  when  an  edifice  was  complete,  there 
was  almost  as  much  of  it  in  the  earth  as  above  it.  Unless 
built  upon  piles,  like  Notre-Dame,  a  palace,  a  fortress,  a 
church,  had  always  a  double  bottom.  In  cathedrals,  it  was, 
in  some  sort,  another  subterranean  cathedral,  low,  dark, 
mysterious,  blind,  and  mute,  under  the  upper  nave  which  was 
overflowing  with  light  and  reverberating  with  organs  and  bells 
day  and  night.  Sometimes  it  was  a  sepulchre.  In  palaces, 
in  fortresses,  it  was  a  prison,  sometimes  a  sepulchre  also, 
sometimes  both  together.  These  mighty  buildings,  whose 
mode  of  formation  and  vegetation  we  have  elsewhere  ex- 
plained, had  not  simply  foundations,  but,  so  to  speak,  roots 
which  ran  branching  through  the  soil  in  chambers,  galleries, 
and  staircases,  like  the  construction  above.  Thus  churches, 
palaces,  fortresses,  had  the  earth  half  way  up  their  bodies.  The 
cellars  of  an  edifice  formed  another  edifice,  into  which  one 
descended  instead  of  ascending,  and  which  extended  its  sub- 
terranean grounds  under  the  external  piles  of  the  monu- 
ment, like  those  forests  and  mountains  which  are  reversed 
in  the  mirror-like  waters  of  a  lake,  beneath  the  forests  and 
mountains  of  the  banks. 

At  the  fortress  of  Saint- Antoine,  at  the  Palais  de  Justice  of 
Paris,  at  the  Louvre,  these  subterranean  edifices  were  prisons. 

96 


LASCIATE  OGNI  SPERANZA.  97 

The  stories  of  these  prisons,  as  they  sank  into  the  soil,  grew 
constantly  narrower  and  more  gloomy.  They  were  so  many 
zones,  where  the  shades  of  horror  were  graduated.  Dante 
could  never  imagine  anything  better  for  his  hell.  These 
tunnels  of  cells  usually  terminated  in  a  sack  of  a  lowest 
dungeon,  with  a  vat-like  bottom,  where  Dante  placed  Satan, 
where  society  placed  those  condemned  to  death.  A  miserable 
human  existence,  once  interred  there ;  farewell  light,  air,  life, 
•ogni  speranza  —  every  hope;  it  only  came  forth  to  the  scaffold 
or  the  stake.  Sometimes  it  rotted  there ;  human  justice 
called  this  forgetting.  Between  men  and  himself,  the  con- 
demned man  felt  a  pile  of  stones  and  jailers  weighing  down 
upon  his  head ;  and  the  entire  prison,  the  massive  bastille 
was  nothing  more  than  an  enormous,  complicated  lock,  which 
barred  him  off  from  the  rest  of  the  world. 

It  was  in  a  sloping  cavity  of  this  description,  in  the  ou- 
bliettes excavated  by  Saint-Louis,  in  the  inpace  of  the  Tour- 
nelle,  that  la  Esmeralda  had  been  placed  on  being  condemned 
to  death,  through  fear  of  her  escape,  no  doubt,  with  the  colos- 
sal court-house  over  her  head.  Poor  fly,  who  could  not  have 
lifted  even  one  of  its  blocks  of  stone  ! 

Assuredly,  Providence  and  society  had  been  equally  unjust ; 
such  an  excess  of  unhappiness  and  of  torture  was  not  neces- 
sary to  break  so  frail  a  creature. 

There  she  lay,  lost  in  the  shadows,  buried,  hidden,  immured. 
Any  one  who  could  have  beheld  her  in  this  state,  after  having 
seen  her  laugh  and  dance  in  the  sun,  would  have  shuddered. 
Cold  as  night,  cold  as  death,  not  a  breath  of  air  in  her  tresses, 
not  a  human  sound  in  her  ear,  no  longer  a  ray  of  light  in  her 
eyes  ;  snapped  in  twain,  crushed  with  chains,  crouching  beside 
a  jug  and  a  loaf,  on  a  little  straw,  in  a  pool  of  water,  which 
was  formed  under  her  by  the  sweating  of  the  prison  walls ; 
without  motion,  almost  without  breath,  she  had  no  longer  the 
power  to  suffer;  Phoebus,  the  sun,  midday,  the  open  air,  the 
streets  of  Paris,  the  dances  with  applause,  the  sweet  bab- 
blings of  love  with  the  officer ;  then  the  priest,  the  old  crone, 
the  poignard,  the  blood,  the  torture,  the  gibbet ;  all  this  did, 
indeed,  pass  before  her  mind,  sometimes  as  a  charming  and 


98  NOTRE-DAME. 

golden  vision,  sometimes  as  a  hideous  nightmare ;  but  it  was 
no  longer  anything  but  a  vague  and  horrible  struggle,  lost  in 
the  gloom,  or  distant  music  played  up  above  ground,  and 
which  was  no  longer  audible  at  the  depth  where  the  unhappy 
girl  had  fallen. 

Since  she  had  been  there,  she  had  neither  waked  nor  slept. 
In  that  misfortune,  in  that  cell,  she  could  no  longer  distin- 
guish her  waking  hours  from  slumber,  dreams  from  reality, 
any  more  than  day  from  night.  All  this  was  mixed,  broken, 
floating,  disseminated  confusedly  in  her  thought.  She  no 
longer  felt,  she  no  longer  knew,  she  no  longer  thought ;  at 
the  most,  she  only  dreamed.  Never  had  a  living  creature 
been  thrust  more  deeply  into  nothingness. 

Thus  benumbed,  frozen,  petrified,  she  had  barely  noticed 
on  two  or  three  occasions,  the  sound  of  a  trap  door  opening 
somewhere  above  her,  without  even  permitting  the  passage  of 
a  little  light,  and  through  which  a  hand  had  tossed  her  a  bit 
of  black  bread.  Nevertheless,  this  periodical  visit  of  the 
jailer  was  the  sole  communication  which  was  left  her  with 
mankind. 

A  single  thing  still  mechanically  occupied  her  ear ;  above 
her  head,  the  dampness  was  filtering  through  the  mouldy 
stones  of  the  vault,  and  a  drop  of  water  dropped  from  them 
at  regular  intervals.  She  listened  stupidly  to  the  noise  made 
by  this  drop  of  water  as  it  fell  into  the  pool  beside  her. 

This  drop  of  water  falling  from  time  to  time  into  that  pool, 
was  the  only  movement  which  still  went  on  around  her,  the 
only  clock  which  marked  the  time,  the  only  noise  which 
reached  her  of  all  the  noise  made  on  the  surface  of  the  earth. 

To  tell  the  whole,  however,  she  also  felt,  from  time  to  time, 
in  that  cesspool  of  mire  and  darkness,  something  cold  passing 
over  her  foot  or  her  arm,  and  she  shuddered. 

How  long  had  she  been  there  ?  She  did  not  know.  She 
had  a  recollection  of  a  sentence  of  death  pronounced  some- 
where, against  some  one,  then  of  having  been  herself  carried 
away,  and  of  waking  up  in  darkness  and  silence,  chilled  to 
the  heart.  She  had  dragged  herself  along  on  her  hands. 
Then  iron  rings  that  cut  her  ankles,  and  chains  had  rattled. 


LA  SCI  ATE  OGNI  SPERANZA.  99 

She  had  recognized  the  fact  that  all  around  her  was  wall,  that 
below  her  there  was  a  pavement  covered  with  moisture  and  a 
truss  of  straw  ;  but  neither  lamp  nor  air-hole.  Then  she  had 
seated  herself  on  that  straw  and,  sometimes,  for  the  sake  of 
changing  her  attitude,  on  the  last  stone  step  in  her  dungeon. 

For  a  while  she  had  tried  to  count  the  black  minutes  meas- 
ured off  for  her  by  the  drop  of  water;  but  that  melancholy 
labor  of  an  ailing  brain  had  broken  off  of  itself  in  her  head, 
and  had  left  her  in  stupor. 

At  length,  one  day,  or  one  night,  (for  midnight  and  midday 
were  of  the  same  color  in  that  sepulchre),  she  heard  above  her 
a  louder  noise  than  was  usually  made  by  the  turnkey  when  he 
brought  her  bread  and  jug  of  water.  She  raised  her  head, 
and  beheld  a  ray  of  reddish  light  passing  through  the  crevices 
in  the  sort  of  trapdoor  contrived  in  the  roof  of  the  inpace. 

At  the  same  time,  the  heavy  lock  creaked,  the  trap  grated 
on  its  rusty  hinges,  turned,  and  she  beheld  a  lantern,  a  hand, 
and  the  lower  portions  of  the  bodies  of  two  men,  the  door 
being  too  low  to  admit  of  her  seeing  their  heads.  The  light 
pained  her  so  acutely  that  she  shut  her  eyes. 

When  she  opened  them  again  the  door  was  closed,  the  lan- 
tern was  deposited  on  one  of  the  steps  of  the  staircase ;  a 
man  alone  stood  before  her.  A  monk's  black  cloak  fell  to  his 
feet,  a  cowl  of  the  same  color  concealed  his  face.  Nothing 
was  visible  of  his  person,  neither  face  nor  hands.  It  was  a 
long,  black  shroud  standing  erect,  and  beneath  which  some- 
thing could  be  felt  moving.  She  gazed  fixedly  for  several 
minutes  at  this  sort  of  spectre.  But  neither  he  nor  she 
spoke.  One  would  have  pronounced  them  two  statues  con- 
fronting each  other.  Two  things  only  seemed  alive  in  that 
cavern ;  the  wick  of  the  lantern,  which  sputtered  on  account 
of  the  dampness  of  the  atmosphere,  and  the  drop  of  water 
from  the  roof,  which  cut  this  irregular  sputtering  with  i 
monotonous  splash,  and  made  the  light  of  the  lantern  quiver 
in  concentric  waves  on  the  oily  water  of  the  pool. 

At  last  the  prisoner  broke  the  silence. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  " 

"A  priest." 


100  IfOTBX-DAMK 

The  words,  the  accent,  the  sound  of  his  voice  made  her 
tremble. 

The  priest  continued,  in  a  hollow  voice, — 

"  Are  you  prepared  ?  " 

"  For  what  ?  " 

"  To  die." 

"  Oh  ! "  said  she,  "  will  it  be  soon  ?  " 

"  To-morrow." 

Her  head,  which  had  been  raised  with  joy,  fell  back  upon 
her  breast. 

"  'Tis  very  far  away  yet !  "  she  murmured ;  "  why  could 
they  not  have  done  it  to-day  ?  " 

"  Then  you  are  very  unhappy  ?  "  asked  the  priest,  after  a 
silence. 

"  I  am  very  cold,"  she  replied. 

She  took  her  feet  in  her  hands,  a  gesture  habitual  with  un- 
happy wretches  who  are  cold,  as  we  have  already  seen  in  the 
case  of  the  recluse  of  the  Tour-Eoland,  and  her  teeth  chattered. 

The  priest  appeared  to  cast  his  eyes  around  the  dungeon 
from  beneath  his  cowl. 

"  Without  light !  without  fire  !  in  the  water !  it  is  horrible  !  " 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  with  the  bewildered  air  which  unhappi- 
ness  had  given  her.  "  The  day  belongs  to  every  one,  why  do 
they  give  me  only  night  ?  " 

"  Do  you  know,"  resumed  the  priest,  after  a  fresh  silence, 
"  why  you  are  here  ?  " 

"  I  thought  I  knew  once,"  she  said,  passing  her  thin  fingers 
over  her  eyelids,  as  though  to  aid  her  memory,  "  but  I  know 
no  longer." 

All  at  once  she  began  to  weep  like  a  child. 

"  I  should  like  to  ge't  away  from  here,  sir.  I  am  cold,  I  am 
afraid,  and  there  are  creatures  which  crawl  over  my  body." 

"  Well,  follow  me." 

So  saying,  the  priest  took  her  arm.  The  unhappy  girl  was 
frozen  to  her  very  soul.  Yet  that  hand  produced  ;tn  impres- 
sion of  cold  upon  her. 

"  Oh  ! "  she  murmured,  "  'tis  the  icy  hand  of  death.  Who 
are  you  ?  " 


L ASCI ATE   OGNI  SPEKANZA.  101 

The  priest  threw  back  his  cowl ;  she  looked.  It  was  the 
sinister  visage  which  had  so  long  pursued  her ;  that  demon's 
head  which  had  appeared  at  la  FalourdePs,  above  the  head  of 
her  adored  Phoebus  ;  that  eye  which  she  last  had  seen  glitter- 
ing beside  a  dagger. 

This  apparition,  always  so  fatal  for  her,  and  which  had  thus 
driven  her  on  from  misfortune  to  misfortune,  even  to  torture, 
roused  her  from  her  stupor.  It  seemed  to  her  that  the  sort  of 
veil  which  had  lain  thick  upon  her  memory  was  rent  away. 
All  the  details  of  her  melancholy  adventure,  from  the  noctur- 
nal scene  at  la  Falourdel's  to  her  condemnation  to  the  Tour- 
nelle,  recurred  to  her  memory,  no  longer  vague  and  confused 
as  heretofore,  but  distinct,  harsh,  clear,  palpitating,  terrible. 
These  souvenirs,  half  effaced  and  almost  obliterated  by 
excess  of  suffering,  were  revived  by  the  sombre  figure  which 
stood  before  her,  as  the  approach  of  fire  causes  letters  traced 
upon  white  paper  with  invisible  ink,  to  start  out  perfectly 
fresh.  It  seemed  to  her  that  all  the  wounds  of  her  heart 
opened  and  bled  simultaneously. 

"  Hah !  "  she  cried,  with  her  hands  on  her  eyes,  and  a  convul- 
sive trembling,  "  'tis  the  priest ! " 

Then  she  dropped  her  arms  in  discouragement,  and  remained 
seated,  with  lowered  head,  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground,  mute  and 
still  trembling. 

The  priest  gazed  at  her  with  the  eye  of  a  hawk  which  has 
long  been  soaring  in  a  circle  from  the  heights  of  heaven  over  a 
poor  lark  cowering  in  the  wheat,  and  has  long  been  silently 
contracting  the  formidable  circles  of  his  flight,  and  has  sud- 
denly swooped  down  upon  his  prey  like  a  flash  of  lightning, 
and  holds  it  panting  in  his  talons. 

She  began  to  murmur  in  a  low  voice, — 

"  Finish !  finish !  the  last  blow  !  "  and  she  drew  her  head 
down  in  terror  between  her  shoulders,  like  the  lamb  awaiting 
the  blow  of  the  butcher's  axe. 

"  So  I  inspire  you  with  horror  ?  "  he  said  at  length. 

She  made  no  reply. 

"  Do  I  inspire  you  with  horror  ?  "  he  repeated. 

Her  lips  contracted,  as  though  with  a  smile. 


102  XOTRE-DAME. 

"  Yes,"  said  she,  "  the  headsman  scoffs  at  the  condemned. 
Here  he  has  been  pursuing  me,  threatening  me,  terrifying  me 
for  months  !  Had  it  not  been  for  him,  my  God,  how  happy  I 
should  have  been !  It  was  he  who  cast  me  into  this  abyss  ! 
Oh  heavens  !  it  was  he  who  killed  him  !  my  Phoebus  !  " 

Here,  bursting  into  sobs,  and  raising  her  eyes  to  the  priest , — 

"  Oh !  wretch,  who  are  you  ?  What  have  I  done  to  you  ? 
Do  you  then,  hate  me  so  ?  Alas  !  what  have  you  against  me  ?  " 

"  I  love  thee  ! "  cried  the  priest. 

Her  tears  suddenly  ceased,  she  gazed  at  him  with  the  look 
of  an  idiot.  He  had  fallen  on  his  knees  and  was  devouring 
her  with  eyes  of  flame. 

"  Dost  thou  understand  ?  I  love  thee  ! "  he  cried  again. 

"  What  love !  "  said  the  unhappy  girl  with  a  shudder. 

He  resumed,  — 

"  The  love  of  a  damned  soul." 

Both  remained  silent  for  several  minutes,  crushed  beneath 
the  weight  of  their  emotions ;  he  maddened,  she  stupefied. 

"Listen,"  said  the  priest  at  last,  and  a  singular  calm  had 
come  over  him ;  "  you  shall  know  all  I  am  about  to  tell  you 
that  which  I  have  hitherto  hardly  dared  to  say  to  myself, 
when  furtively  interrogating  my  conscience  at  those  deep 
hours  of  the  night  when  it  is  so  dark  that  it  seems  as  though 
God  no  longer  saw  us.  Listen.  Before  I  knew  you,  young 
girl,  I  was  happy." 

"  So  was  I !  "  she  sighed  feebly. 

"  Do  not  interrupt  me.  Yes,  I  was  happy,  at  least  I  be- 
lieved myself  to  be  so.  I  was  pure,  my  soul  was  filled  with 
limpid  light.  No  head  was  raised  more  proudly  and  more 
radiantly  than  mine.  Priests  consulted  me  on  chastity  ;  doc- 
tors, on  doctrines.  Yes,  science  was  all  in  all  to  me ;  it  was  a 
sister  to  me,  and  a  sister  sufficed.  Not  but  that  with  age 
other  ideas  came  to  me.  More  than  once  my  flesh  had  been 
moved  as  a  woman's  form  passed  by.  That  force  of  sex  and 
blood  which,  in  the  madness  of  youth,  I  had  imagined  that  I 
had  stifled  forever  had,  more  than  once,  convulsively  raised 
the  chain  of  iron  vows  which  bind  me,  a  miserable  wretch,  to 
the  cold  stones  of  the  altar.  But  fasting,  prayer,  study,  the 


LASCIATE  OGN1  SPESANZA.  103 

mortifications  of  tlie  cloister,  rendered  my  soul  mistress  of 
my  body  once  more,  and  then  I  avoided  women.  Moreover,  I 
had  but  to  open  a  book,  and  all  the  impure  mists  of  my  brain 
vanished  before  the  splendors  of  science.  In  a  few  moments, 
I  felt  the  gross  things  of  earth  flee  far  away,  and  I  found 
myself  once  more  calm,  quieted,  and  serene,  in  the  presence  of 
the  tranquil  radiance  of  eternal  truth.  As  long  as  the  demon 
sent  to  attack  me  only  vague  shadows  of  women  who  passed 
occasionally  before  my  eyes  in  church,  in  the  streets,  in  the 
fields,  and  who  hardly  recurred  to  my  dreams,  I  easily  van- 
quished him.  Alas  !  if  the  victory  has  not  remained  with  me, 
it  is  the  fault  of  God,  who  has  not  created  man  and  the 
demon  of  equal  force.  Listen.  One  day  —  " 

Here  the  priest  paused,  and  the  prisoner  heard  sighs  of 
anguish  break  from  his  breast  with  a  sound  of  the  death 
rattle. 

He  resumed,  — 

"  One  day  I  was  leaning  on  the  window  of  my  cell.  What 
book  was  I  reading  then  ?  Oh !  all  that  is  a  whirlwind  in  my 
head.  I  was  reading.  The  window  opened  upon  a  Square.  I 
heard  a  sound  of  tambourine  and  music.  Annoyed  at  being 
thus  disturbed  in  my  revery,  I  glanced  into  the  Square.  What 
I  beheld,  others  saw  beside  myself,  and  yet  it  was  not  a  spec- 
tacle made  for  human  eyes.  There,  in  the  middle  of  the 
pavement,  —  it  was  midday,  the  sun  was  shining  brightly, — a 
creature  was  dancing.  A  creature  so  beautiful  that  God 
would  have  preferred  her  to  the  Virgin  and  have  chosen  her 
for  his  mother  and  have  wished  to  be  born  of  her  if  she  had 
been  in  existence  when  he  was  made  man !  Her  eyes  were 
black  and  splendid ;  in  the  midst  of  her  black  locks,  some 
hairs  through  which  the  sun  shone  glistened  like  threads 
of  gold.  Her  feet  disappeared  in  their  movements  like  the 
spokes  of  a  rapidly  turning  wheel.  Around  her  head,  in  her 
black  tresses,  there  were  disks  of  metal,  which  glittered  in 
the  sun,  and  formed  a  coronet  of  stars  on  her  brow.  Her 
dress  thick  set  with  spangles,  blue,  and  dotted  with  a  thou- 
sand sparks,  gleamed  like  a  summer  night.  Her  brown, 
supple  arms  twined  and  untwined  around  her  waist,  like  two 


104  NOTRE-DAME. 

scarfs.  The  form  of  her  body  was  surprisingly  beautiful. 
Oh !  what  a  resplendent  figure  stood  out,  like  something 
luminous  even  in  the  sunlight !  Alas,  young  girl,  it  was  thou ! 
Surprised,  intoxicated,  charmed,  I  allowed  myself  to  gaze 
upon  thee.  I  looked  so  long  that  I  suddenly  shuddered  with 
terror ;  I  felt  that  fate  was  seizing  hold  of  me." 

The  priest  paused  for  a  moment,  overcome  with  emotion. 
Then  he  continued,  — 

"  Already  half  fascinated,  I  tried  to  cling  fast  to  something 
and  hold  myself  back  from  falling.  I  recalled  the  snares  which 
Satan  had  already  set  for  me.  The  creature  before  my  eyes 
possessed  that  superhuman  beauty  which  can  come  only  from 
heaven  or  hell.  It  was  no  simple  girl  made  with  a  little  of 
our  earth,  and  dimly  lighted  within  by  the  vacillating  ray  of 
a  woman's  soul.  It  was  an  angel !  but  of  shadows  and  flame, 
and  not  of  light.  At  the  moment  when  I  was  meditating 
thus,  I  beheld  beside  you  a  goat,  a  beast  of  witches,  which 
smiled  as  it  gazed  at  me.  The  midday  sun  gave  him  golden 
horns.  Then  I  perceived  the  snare  of  the  demon,  and  I  no 
longer  doubted  that  you  had  come  from  hell  and  that  you  had 
come  thence  for  my  perdition.  I  believed  it." 

Here  the  priest  looked  the  prisoner  full  in  the  face,  and 
added,  coldly,  — 

"  I  believe  it  still.  Nevertheless,  the  charm  operated  little 
by  little ;  your  dancing  whirled  through  my  brain  ;  I  felt  the 
mysterious  spell  working  within  me.  All  that  should  have 
awakened  was  lulled  to  sleep ;  and  like  those  who  die  in  the 
snow,  I  felt  pleasure  in  allowing  this  sleep  to  draw  on.  All 
at  once,  you  began  to  sing.  What  could  I  do,  unhappy 
wretch  ?  Your  song  was  still  more  charming  than  your  dan- 
cing. I  tried  to  flee.  Impossible.  I  was  nailed,  rooted  to  the 
spot.  It  seemed  to  me  that  the  marble  of  the  pavement  had 
risen  to  my  knees.  I  was  forced  to  remain  until  the  end. 
My  feet  were  like  ice,  my  head  was  on  fire.  At  last  you  took 
pity  on  me,  you  ceased  to  sing,  you  disappeared.  The  reflec- 
tion of  the  dazzling  vision,  the  reverberation  of  the  enchant- 
ing music  disappeared  by  degrees  from  my  eyes  and  my  ears. 
Then  I  fell  back  into  the  embrasure  of  the  window,  more 


LASCIATE  OGNI  SPERANZA.  105 

rigid,  more  feeble  than  a  statue  torn  from  its  base.  The 
vesper  bell  roused  me.  I  drew  myself  up ;  I  fled ;  but  alas ! 
something  within  me  had  fallen  never  to  rise  again,  something 
had  come  upon  me  from  which  I  could  not  flee." 

He  made  another  pause  and  went  on,  — 

"Yes,  dating  from  that  day,  there  was  within  me  a  man 
whom  I  did  not  know.  I  tried  to  make  use  of  all  my  reme- 
dies. The  cloister,  the  altar,  work,  books,  —  follies !  Oh,  how 
hollow  does  science  sound  when  one  in  despair  dashes  against 
it  a  head  full  of  passions !  Do  you  know,  young  girl,  what  I 
saw  thenceforth  between  my  book  and  me  ?  You,  your  shade, 
the  image  of  the  luminous  apparition  which  had  one  day 
crossed  the  space  before  me.  But  this  image  had  no  longer 
the  same  color ;  it  was  sombre,  funereal,  gloomy  as  the  black 
circle  which  long  pursues  the  vision  of  the  imprudent  man 
who  has  gazed  intently  at  the  sun. 

"  Unable  to  rid  myself  of  it,  since  I  heard  your  song  hum- 
ming ever  in  my  head,  beheld  your  feet  dancing  always  on 
my  breviary,  felt  even  at  night,  in  my  dreams,  your  form 
in  contact  with  my  own,  I  desired  to  see  you  again,  to  touch 
you,  to  know  who  you  were,  to  see  whether  I  should  really 
find  you  like  the  ideal  image  which  I  had  retained  of  you,  to 
shatter  my  dream,  perchance,  with  reality.  At  all  events,  I 
hoped  that  a  new  impression  would  efface  the  first,  and  the 
first  had  become  insupportable.  I  sought  you.  I  saw  you 
once  more.  Calamity  !  When  I  had  seen  you  twice,  I  wanted 
to  see  you  a  thousand  times,  I  wanted  to  see  you  always. 
Then  — how  stop  myself  on  that  slope  of  hell  ?  — then  I  no 
longer  belonged  to  myself.  The  other  end  of  the  thread 
which  the  demon  had  attached  to  my  wings  he  had  fastened 
to  his  foot.  I  became  vagrant  and  wandering  like  yourself. 
I  waited  for  you  under  porches,  I  stood  on  the  lookout  for 
you  at  the  street  corners,  I  watched  for  you  from  the  summit 
of  my  tower.  Every  evening  I  returned  to  myself  more 
charmed,  more  despairing,  more  bewitched,  more  lost ! 

"I   had  learned  who  you  were;  an  Egyptian,  Bohemian 
gypsy,  zingara.     How  could  I  doubt  the  magic  ?     Listen, 
hoped  that  a  trial  would  free  me  from  the  charm.     A  witch 


106  NOTBE-DAME. 

enchanted  Bruno  d'Ast ;  he  had  her  burned,  and  was  cured.  I 
knew  it.  I  wanted  to  try  the  remedy.  First  I  tried  to  have 
you  forbidden  the  square  in  front  of  Notre-Dame,  hoping  to 
forget  you  if  you  returned  no  more.  You  paid  no  heed  to  it. 
You  returned.  Then  the  idea  of  abducting  you  occurred  to 
me.  One  night  I  made  the  attempt.  There  were  two  of  us. 
We  already  had  you  in  our  power,  when  that  miserable  officer 
came  up.  He  delivered  you.  Thus  did  he  begin  your  unhappi- 
ness,  mine,  and  his  own.  Finally,  no  longer  knowing  what  to 
do,  and  what  was  to  become  of  me,  I  denounced  you  to  the  official. 

"  I  thought  that  I  should  be  cured  like  Bruno  d'Ast.  I  also 
had  a  confused  idea  that  a  trial  would  deliver  you  into  my 
hands ;  that,  as  a  prisoner  I  should  hold  you,  I  should  have 
you ;  that  there  you  could  not  escape  from  me ;  that  you  had 
already  possessed  me  a  sufficiently  long  time  to  give  me  the 
right  to  possess  you  in  my  turn.  When  one  does  wrong,  one 
must  do  it  thoroughly.  'Tis  madness  to  halt  midway  in  the 
monstrous  !  The  extreme  of  crime  has  its  deliriums  of  joy. 
A  priest  and  a  witch  can  mingle  in  delight  upon  the  truss  of 
straw  in  a  dungeon ! 

"  Accordingly,  I  denounced  you.  It  was  then  that  I  terrified 
you  when  we  met.  The  plot  which  I  was  weaving  against 
you,  the  storm  which  I  was  heaping  up  above  your  head,  burst 
from  me  in  threats  and  lightning  glances.  Still,  I  hesitated. 
My  project  had  its  terrible  sides  which  made  me  shrink  back. 

"  Perhaps  I  might  have  renounced  it ;  perhaps  my  hideous 
thought  would  have  withered  in  my  brain,  without  bearing 
fruit.  I  thought  that  it  would  always  depend  upon  me .  to 
follow  up  or  discontinue  this  prosecution.  But  every  evil 
thought  is  inexorable,  and  insists  on  becoming  a  deed;  but 
where  I  believed  myself  to  be  all  powerful,  fate  was  more 
powerful  than  I.  Alas !  'tis  fate  which  has  seized  you  and 
delivered  you  to  the  terrible  wheels  of  the  machine  which  I 
had  constructed  doubly.  Listen.  I  am  nearing  the  end. 

"  One  day, —  again  the  sun  was  shining  brilliantly  —  I  behold 
a  man  pass  me  uttering  your  name  and  laughing,  who  carries 
sensuality  in  his  eyes.  Damnation !  I  followed  him ;  you 
know  the  rest." 


L ASCI ATE  OGNI  SPERANZA.  107 

He  ceased. 

The  young  girl  could  find  but  one  word : 

"  Oh,  my  Phoebus  !  " 

"  Not  that  name  ! "  said  the  priest,  grasping  her  arm 
violently.  "  Utter  not  that  name  !  Oh  !  miserable  wretches 
that  we  are,  'tis  that  name  which  has  ruined  us  !  or,  rather 
we  have  ruined  each  other  by  the  inexplicable  play  of  fate ! 
you  are  suffering,  are  you  not  ?  you  are  cold  ;  the  night  makes 
you  blind,  the  dungeon  envelops  you ;  but  perhaps  you  still 
have  some  light  in  the  bottom  of  your  soul,  were  it  only  your 
childish  love  for  that  empty  man  who  played  with  your  heart, 
while  I  bear  the  dungeon  within  me ;  within  me  there  is 
winter,  ice,  despair ;  I  have  night  in  my  soul. 

"  Do  you  know  what  I  have  suffered  ?  I  was  present  at  your 
trial.  I  was  seated  on  the  official's  bench.  Yes,  under  one  of 
the  priests'  cowls,  there  were  the  contortions  of  the  damned. 
When  you  were  brought  in,  I  was  there ;  when  you  were  ques- 
tioned, I  was  there.  —  Den  of  wolves  !  —  It  was  my  crime,  it 
was  my  gallows  that  I  beheld  being  slowly  reared  over  your 
head.  I  was  there  for  every  witness,  every  proof,  every  plea ; 
I  could  count  each  of  your  steps  in  the  painful  path ;  I  was 
still  there  when  that  ferocious  beast  —  oh  !  I  had  not  foreseen, 
torture  !  Listen.  I  followed  you  to  that  chamber  of  anguish. 
I  beheld  you  stripped  and  handled,  half  naked,  by  the  infa- 
mous hands  of  the  tormentor.  I  beheld  your  foot,  that  foot 
which  I  would  have  given  an  empire  to  kiss  and  die,  that  foot, 
beneath  which  to  have  had  my  head  crushed  I  should  have 
felt  such  rapture,  —  I  beheld  it  encased  in  that  horrible  boot, 
which  converts  the  limbs  of  a  living  being  into  one  bloody 
clod.  Oh,  wretch !  while  I  looked  on  at  that,  I  held  beneath 
my  shroud  a  dagger,  with  which  I  lacerated  my  breast.  When 
you  uttered  that  cry,  I  plunged  it  into  my  flesh ;  at  a  second 
cry,  it  would  have  entered  my  heart.  Look  !  I  believe  that  it 
still  bleeds." 

He  opened  his  cassock.  His  breast  was  in  fact,  mangled  as 
by  the  claw  of  a  tiger,  and  on  his  side  he  had  a  large  and 
badly  healed  wound. 

The  prisoner  recoiled  with  horror. 


108  NOTKE-DAME. 

"  Oh !  "  said  the  priest,  "  young  girl,  have  pity  upon  me  ! 
You  think  yourself  unhappy ;  alas  !  alas  !  you  know  not  what 
unhappiness  is.  Oh !  to  love  a  woman !  to  be  a  priest !  to  be 
hated  !  to  love  with  all  the  fury  of  one's  soul ;  to  feel  that  one 
would  give  for  the  least  of  her  smiles,  one's  blood,  one's  vitals, 
one's  fame,  one's  salvation,  one's  immortality  and  eternity,  this 
life  and  the  other ;  to  regret  that  one  is  not  a  king,  emperor, 
archangel,  God,  in  order  that  one  might  place  a  greater  slave 
beneath  her  feet ;  to  clasp  her  night  and  day  in  one's  dreams 
and  one's  thoughts,  and  to  behold  her  in  love  with  the  trap- 
pings of  a  soldier !  and  to  have  nothing  to  offer  her  but  a 
priest's  dirty  cassock,  which  will  inspire  her  with  fear  and 
disgust !  To  be  present  with  one's  jealousy  and  one's  rage, 
while  she  lavishes  on  a  miserable,  blustering  imbecile,  treas- 
ures of  love  and  beauty !  To  behold  that  body  whose  form 
burns  you,  that  bosom  which  possesses  so  much  sweetness, 
that  flesh  palpitate  and  blush  beneath  the  kisses  of  another ! 
Oh  heaven !  to  love  her  foot,  her  arm,  her  shoulder,  to  think 
of  her  blue  veins,  of  her  brown  skin,  until  one  writhes  for 
whole  nights  together  on  the  pavement  of  one's  cell,  and  to 
behold  all  those  caresses  which  one  has  dreamed  of,  end  in 
torture !  To  have  succeeded  only  in  stretching  her  upon  the 
leather  bed  !  Oh !  these  are  the  veritable  pincers,  reddened 
in  the  fires  of  hell.  Oh  !  blessed  is  he  who  is  sawn  between 
two  planks,  or  torn  in  pieces  by  four  horses !  Do  you  know 
what  that  torture  is,  which  is  imposed  upon  you  for  long 
nights  by  your  burning  arteries,  your  bursting  heart,  your 
breaking  head,  your  teeth-knaAved  hands  ;  mad  tormentors 
which  turn  you  incessantly,  as  upon  a  red-hot  gridiron,  to  a 
thought  of  love,  of  jealousy,  and  of  despair!  Young  girl, 
mercy !  a  truce  for  a  moment !  a  few  ashes  on  these  live 
eoals!  Wipe  away,  I  beseech  you,  the  perspiration  which 
trickles  in  great  drops  from  my  brow  !  Child  !  torture  me 
with  one  hand,  but  caress  me  with  the  other !  Have  pity, 
young  girl !  Have  pity  upon  me  ! " 

The  priest  writhed  on  the  wet  pavement,  beating  his  head 
against  the  corners  of  the  stone  steps.  The  young  girl  gazed 
at  him,  and  listened  to  him. 


LA  SCI  ATE  OGNI  SPERANZA.  109 

When  he  ceased,  exhausted  and  panting,  she  repeated  in  a 
low  voice, — 

"  Oh  my  Phoebus  ! " 

The  priest  dragged  himself  towards  her  on  his  knees. 

"  I  beseech  you,"  he  cried,  "  if  you  have  any  heart,  do  not 
repulse  me !  Oh !  I  love  you  !  I  am  a  wretch  !  When  you 
utter  that  name,  unhappy  girl,  it  is  as  though  you  crushed  all 
tiie  fibres  of  my  heart  between  your  teeth.  Mercy  !  If  you 
come  from  hell  I  will  go  thither  with  you.  I  have  done  every- 
thing to  that  end.  The  hell  where  you  are,  shall  be  paradise  ; 
the  sight  of  you  is  more  charming  than  that  of  God  !  Oh ! 
speak !  you  will  have  none  of  me  ?  I  should  have  thought 
the  mountains  would  be  shaken  in  their  foundations  on  the 
day  when  a  woman  would  repulse  such  a  love.  Oh  !  if  you 
only  would !  Oh !  how  happy  we  might  be.  We  would  flee  — 
I  would  help  you  to  flee,  —  we  would  go  somewhere,  we  would 
seek  that  spot  on  earth,  where  the  sun  is  brightest,  the  sky 
the  bluest,  where  the  trees  are  most  luxuriant.  We  would 
love  each  other,  we  would  pour  our  two  souls  into  each  other, 
and  we  would  have  a  thirst  for  ourselves  which  we  would 
quench  in  common  and  incessantly  at  that  fountain  of  inex- 
haustible love." 

She  interrupted  with  a  terrible  and  thrilling  laugh. 

"  Look,  father,  you  have  blood  on  your  fingers  ! " 

The  priest  remained  for  several  moments  as  though  petrified, 
with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  his  hand. 

"  Well,  yes  !  "  he  resumed  at  last,  with  strange  gentleness, 
"  insult  me,  scoff  at  me,  overwhelm  me  with  scorn !  but  come, 
come.  Let  us  make  haste.  It  is  to  be  to-morrow,  I  tell  you. 
The  gibbet  on  the  Greve,  you  know  it  ?  it  stands  always 
ready.  It  is  horrible  !  to  see  you  ride  in  that  tumbrel !  Oh ! 
mercy  !  Until  now  I  have  never  felt  the  power  of  my  love 
for  you.  —  Oh  !  follow  me.  You  shall  take  your  time  to  love 
me  after  I  have  saved  you.  You  shall  hate  me  as  long  as  you 
will.  But  come.  To-morrow  !  to-morrow  !  the  gallows  !  your 
execution  !  Oh  !  save  yourself  !  spare  me  !  " 

He  seized  her  arm,  he  was  beside  himself,  he  tried  to  drag 
her  away.  , 


HO  NOTRE-DAME. 

She  fixed  her  eye  intently  on  him. 

"  What  has  become  of  my  Phoebus  ?  " 

"  Ah  ! "  said  the  priest,  releasing  her  arm,  "  you  are  pitiless." 

"  What  has  become  of  Phoebus  ?  "  she  repeated  coldly. 

"  He  is  dead ! "  cried  the  priest. 

"  Dead  ! "  said  she,  still  icy  and  motionless  ;  "  then  why  do 
you  talk  to  me  of  living  ?  " 

He  was  not  listening  to  her. 

"  Oh !  yes,"  said  he,  as  though  speaking  to  himself,  "  he  cer- 
tainly must  be  dead.  The  blade  pierced  deeply.  I  believe  I 
touched  his  heart  with  the  point.  Oh !  my  very  soul  was  at 
the  end  of  the  dagger ! " 

The  young  girl  flung  herself  upon  him  like  a  raging  tigress, 
and  pushed  him  upon  the  steps  of  the  staircase  with  super- 
natural force. 

"  Begone,  monster !  Begone,  assassin  !  Leave  me  to  die ! 
May  the  blood  of  both  of  us  make  an  eternal  stain  upon  your 
brow !  Be  thine,  priest !  Never !  never  !  Nothing,  shall  unite 
us  !  not  hell  itself !  Go,  accursed  man !  never  !  " 

The  priest  had  stumbled  on  the  stairs.  He  silently  disen- 
tangled his  feet  from  the  folds  of  his  robe,  picked  up  his  lan- 
tern again,  and  slowly  began  the  ascent  of  the  steps  which  led 
to  the  door ;  he  opened  the  door  and  passed  through  it. 

All  at  once,  the  young  girl  beheld  his  head  reappear ;  it  wore 
a  frightful  expression,  and  he  cried,  hoarse  with  rage  and 
despair, — 

"  I  tell  you  he  is  dead  !  " 

She  fell  face  downwards  upon  the  floor,  and  there  was  no 
longer  any  sound  audible  in  the  cell  than  the  sob  of  the  drop 
of  water  which  made  the  pool  palpitate  amid  the  darkness. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE    MOTHER. 

I  DO  not  believe  that  there  is  anything  sweeter  in  the  world 
than  the  ideas  which  awake  in  a  mother's  heart  at  the  sight 
of  her  child's  tiny  shoe ;  especially  if  it  is  a  shoe  for  festivals, 
for  Sunday,  for  baptism,  the  shoe  embroidered  to  the  very 
sole,  a  shoe  in  which  the  infant  has  not  yet  taken  a  step.  That 
shoe  has  so  much  grace  and  daintiness,  it  is  so  impossible  for 
it  to  walk,  that  it  seems  to  the  mother  as  though  she  saw  her 
child.  She  smiles  upon  it,  she  kisses  it,  she  talks  to  it;  she 
asks  herself  whether  there  can  actually  be  a  foot  so  tiny ;  and 
if  the  child  be  absent,  the  pretty  shoe  suffices  to  place  the 
sweet  and  fragile  creature  before  her  eyes.  She  thinks  she' 
sees  it,  she  does  see  it,  complete,  living,  joyous,  with  its  deli- 
cate hands,  its  round  head,  its  pure  lips,  its  serene  eyes  whose 
white  is  blue.  If  it  is  in  winter,  it  is  yonder,  crawling  on  the 
carpet,  it  is  laboriously  climbing  upon  an  ottoman,  and  the 
mother  trembles  lest  it  should  approach  the  fire.  If  it  is  sum- 
mer time,  it  crawls  about  the  yard,  in  the  garden,  plucks  up  the 
grass  between  the  paving-stones,  gazes  innocently  at  the  big 
dogs,  the  big  horses,  without  fear,  plays  with  the  shells,  with 
the  flowers,  and  makes  the  gardener  grumble  because  he  finds 
sand  in  the  flower-beds  and  earth  in  the  paths.  Everything 
laughs,  and  shines  and  plays  around  it,  like  it,  even  the  breath  of 
air  and  the  ray  of  sun  which  vie  with  each  other  in  disporting 

111 


112  NOT  RE-DA  ME. 

among  the  silky  ringlets  of  its  hair.  The  shoe  shows  all  this 
to  the  mother,  and  makes  her  heart  melt  as  fire  melts  wax. 

But  when  the  child  is  lost,  these  thousand  images  of  joy, 
of  charms,  of  tenderness,  which  throng  around  the  little  shoe, 
become  so  many  horrible  things.  The  pretty  broidered  shoe 
is  no  longer  anything  but  an  instrument  of  torture  which 
eternally  crushes  the  heart  of  the  mother.  It  is  always  the 
same  fibre  which  vibrates,  the  tenderest  and  most  sensitive ; 
but  instead  of  an  angel  caressing  it,  it  is  a  demon  who  is 
wrenching  at  it. 

One  May  morning,  when  the  sun  was  rising  on  one  of  those 
dark  blue  skies  against  which  Garofolo  loves  to  place  his  De- 
scents from  the  Cross,  the  recluse  of  the  Tour-Roland  heard  a 
sound  of  wheels,  of  horses  and  irons  in  the  Place  de  Givve. 
She  was  somewhat  aroused  by  it,  knotted  her  hair  upon  her 
ears  in  order  to  deafen  herself,  and  resumed  her  contempla- 
tion, on  her  knees,  of  the  inanimate  object  which  she  had 
adored  for  fifteen  years.  This  little  shoe  was  the  universe  to 
her,  as  we  have  already  said.  Her  thought  was  shut  up  in  it, 
and  was  destined  never  more  to  quit  it  except  at  death.  The 
sombre  cave  of  the  Tour-Roland  alone  knew  how  many  bitter 
imprecations,  touching  complaints,  prayers  and  sobs  she  had 
wafted  to  heaven  in  connection  with  that  charming  bauble  of 
rose-colored  satin.  Never  was  more  despair  bestowed  upon  a 
prettier  and  more  graceful  thing. 

It  seemed  as  though  her  grief  were  breaking  forth  more 
violently  than  usual ;  and  she  could  be  heard  outside  lament- 
ing in  a  loud  and  monotonous  voice  which  rent  the  heart. 

"  Oh  my  daughter ! "  she  said,  "  my  daughter,  my  poor,  dear 
little  child,  so  I  shall  never  see  thee  more  !  It  is  over  !  It 
always  seems  to  me  that  it  happened  yesterday  !  My  God ! 
my  God !  it  would  have  been  better  not  to  give  her  to  me 
than  to  take  her  away  so  soon.  Did  you  not  know  that  our 
children  are  part  of  ourselves,  and  that  a  mother  who  has  lost 
her  child  no  longer  believes  in  God  ?  Ah !  wretch  that  I  am 
to  have  gone  out  that  day!  Lord  !  Lord  !  to  have  taken  her 
from  me  thus  ;  you  could  never  have  looked  at  me  with  her, 
when  I  was  joyously  warming  her  at  my  fire,  when  she 


THE  MOTHER. 

laughed  as  she  suckled,  when  I  made  her  tiny  feet  creep  up 
my  breast  to  my  lips  ?  Oh !  if  you  had  looked  at  that,  my 
God,  you  would  have  taken  pity  on  my  joy ;  you  would  not 
have  taken  from  me  the  only  love  which  lingered  in  my  heart ! 
Was  I  then,  Lord,  so  miserable  a  creature,  that  you  could  not 
look  at  me  before  condemning  me  ?  —  Alas  !  Alas  !  here  is  the 
shoe ;  where  is  the  foot  ?  where  is  the  rest  ?  Where  is  the 
child  ?  My  daughter  !  my  daughter !  what  did  they  do  with 
thee  ?  Lord,  give  her  back  to  me.  My  knees  have  been 
worn  for  fifteen  years  in  praying  to  thee,  my  God  !  Is  not 
that  enough  ?  Give  her  back  to  me  one  day,  one  hour,  one 
minute ;  one  minute,  Lord !  and  then  cast  me  to  the  demon  for 
all  eternity  !  Oh !  if  I  only  knew  where  the  skirt  of  your 
garment  trails,  I  would  cling  to  it  with  both  hands,  and  you 
would  be  obliged  to  give  me  back  my  child !  Have  you  no 
pity  on  her  pretty  little  shoe  ?  Could  you  condemn  a  poor 
mother  to  this  torture  for  fifteen  years  ?  Good  Virgin !  good 
Virgin  of  heaven !  my  infant  Jesus  has  been  taken  from  me, 
has  been  stolen  from  me ;  they  devoured  her  on  a  heath,  they 
drank  her  blood,  they  cracked  her  bones  !  Good  Virgin,  have 
pity  upon  me.  My  daughter,  I  want  my  daughter  !  What  is 
it  to  me  that  she  is  in  paradise  ?  I  do  not  want  your  angel,  I 
want  my  child !  I  am  a  lioness,  I  want  my  whelp.  Oh !  I  will 
writhe  on  the  earth,  I  will  break  the  stones  with  my  forehead, 
and  I  will  damn  myself,  and  I  will  curse  you,  Lord,  if  you 
keep  my  child  from  ine  !  you  see  plainly  that  my  arms  are  all 
bitten,  Lord  !  Has  the  good  God  no  mercy  ?  —  Oh  !  give  me 
only  salt  and  black  bread,  only  let  me  have  my  daughter  to 
warm  me  like  a  sun!  Alas!  Lord  my  God.  Alas!  Lord  my 
God,  I  am  only  a  vile  sinner ;  but  my  daughter  made  me  pious. 
I  was  full  of  religion  for  the  love  of  her,  and  I  beheld  you 
through  her  smile  as  through  an  opening  into  heaven.  Oh ! 
if  I  could  only  once,  just  once  more,  a  single  time,  put  this 
shoe  on  her  pretty  little  pink  foot,  I  would  die  blessing  you, 
good  Virgin.  Ah  !  fifteen  years  !  she  will  be  grown  up  now  ! 
-Unhappy  child!  what!  it  is  really  true  then  I  shall  never 
see  her  more,  not  even  in  heaven,  for  I  shall  not  go  there 
myself.  Oh!  what  misery  to  think  that  here  is  her  shoe, 
and  that  that  is  all ! " 


114  NOTBE-DA^fE. 

The  unhappy  woman  flung  herself  upon  that  shoe ;  her  con- 
solation and  her  despair  for  so  many  years,  and  her  vitals 
were  rent  with  sobs  as  on  the  first  day ;  because,  for  a  mother 
who  has  lost  her  child,  it  is  always  the  first  day.  That  grief 
never  grows  old.  The  mourning  garments  may  grow  white 
and  threadbare,  the  heart  remains  dark. 

At  that  moment,  the  fresh  and  joyous  cries  of  children 
passed  in  front  of  the  cell.  Every  time  that  children  crossed 
her  vision  or  struck  her  ear,  the  poor  mother  flung  herself  into 
the  darkest  corner  of  her  sepulchre,  and  one  would  have  said, 
that  she  sought  to  plunge  her  head  into  the  stone  in  order  not 
to  hear  them.  This  time,  on  the  contrary,  she  drew  herself 
upright  with  a  start,  and  listened  eagerly.  One  of  the  little 
boys  had  just  said,  — 

"  They  are  going  to  hang  a  gypsy  to-day." 

With  the  abrupt  leap  of  that  spider  which  we  have  seen 
fling  itself  upon  a  fly  at  the  trembling  of  its  web,  she  rushed 
to  her  air-hole,  which  opened  as  the  reader  knows,  on  the 
Place  de  Greve.  A  ladder  had,  in  fact,  been  raised  up  against 
the  permanent  gibbet,  and  the  hangman's  assistant  was  busy- 
ing himself  with  adjusting  the  chains  which  had  been  rusted 
by  the  rain.  There  were  some  people  standing  about. 

The  laughing  group  of  children  was  already  far  away.  The 
sacked  nun  sought  with  her  eyes  some  passer-by  whom  she 
might  question.  All  at  once,  beside  her  cell,  she  perceived  a 
priest  making  a  pretext  of  reading  the  public  breviary,  but 
who  was  much  less  occupied  with  the  "lectern  of  latticed 
iron,"  than  with  the  'gallows,  toward  which  he  cast  a  fierce 
and  gloomy  glance  from  time  to  time.  She  recognized  mon- 
sieur the  archdeacon  of  Josas,  a  holy  man. 

"  Father,"  she  inquired,  "  whom  are  they  about  to  hang 
yonder  ?  " 

The  priest  looked  at  her  and  made  no  reply ;  she  repeated 
her  question.  Then  he  said,  — 

"  I  know  not." 

"Some  children  said  that  it  was  a  gypsy,"  went  on  the 
recluse. 

"  I  believe  so,"  said  the  Driest, 


THE  MOTHER.  H5 

Then  Paquette  la  Chantefleurie  burst  into  hyena-like 
laughter. 

"  Sister,"  said  the  archdeacon,  "  do  you  then  hate  the  gyp- 
sies heartily  ?  " 

"Do  I  hate  them  !  "  exclaimed  the  recluse, " they  are  vam- 
pires, stealers  of  children  !  They  devoured  my  little  daugh- 
ter, my  child,  my  only  child!  I  have  no  longer  any  heart, 
they  devoured  it !  " 

She  was  frightful.     The  priest  looked  at  her  coldly. 

"  There  is  one  in  particular  whom  I  hate,  and  whom  I  have 
cursed,"  she  resumed ;  "  it  is  a  young  one,  of  the  age  which 
my  daughter  would  be  if  her  mother  had  not  eaten  my  daugh- 
ter. Every  time  that  that  young  viper  passes  in  front  of  my 
cell,  she  sets  my  blood  in  a  ferment." 

"  Well,  sister,  rejoice,"  said  the  priest,  icy  as  a  sepulchral 
statue ;  "  that  is  the  one  whom  you  are  about  to  see  die." 

His  head  fell  upon  his  bosom  and  he  moved  slowly  away. 

The  recluse  writhed  her  arms  with  joy. 

"I  predicted  it  for  her,  that  she  would  ascend  thither! 
Thanks,  priest ! "  she  cried. 

And  she  began  to  pace  up  and  down  with  long  strides 
before  the  grating  of  her  window,  her  hair  dishevelled,  her 
eyes  flashing,  with  her  shoulder  striking  against  the  wall, 
with  the  wild  air  of  a  female  wolf  in  a  cage,  who  has  long 
been  famished,  and  who  feels  the  hour  for  her  repast  drawing 
near. 


CHAPTER  VL 

THREE    HUMAN   HEARTS    DIFFERENTLY    CONSTRUCTED. 

PHOEBUS  was  not  dead,  however.  Men  of  that  stamp  die 
hard.  When  Master  Philippe  Lheulier,  advocate  extraordi- 
nary of  the  king,  had  said  to  poor  Esmeralda ;  "  He  is  dying," 
it  was  an  error  or  a  jest.  When  the  archdeacon  had  repeated 
to  the  condemned  girl ;  "  He  is  dead,"  the  fact  is  that  he 
knew  nothing  about  it,  but  that  he  believed  it,  that  he 
counted  on  it,  that  he  did  not  doubt  it,  that  he  devoutly 
hoped  it.  It  would  have  been  too  hard  for  him  to  give 
favorable  news  of  his  rival  to  the  woman  whom  he  loved. 
Any  man  Avould  have  done  the  same  in  his  place. 

It  was  not  that  Phoebus's  wound  had  not  been  serious,  but 
it  had  not  been  as  much  so  as  the  archdeacon  believed.  The 
physiciaai,  to  whom  the  soldiers  of  the  watch  had  carried  him 
at  the  first  moment,  had  feared  for  his  life  during  the  space 
of  a  week,  and  had  even  told  him  so  in  Latin.  But  youth 
had  gained  the  upper  hand ;  and,  as  frequently  happens,  in 
spite  of  prognostications  and  diagnoses,  nature  had  amused 
herself  by  saving  the  sick  man  under  the  physician's  very 
nose.  It  was  while  he  was  still  lying  on  the  leech's  pallet 
that  he  had  submitted  to  the  interrogations  of  Philippe  Lheu- 
lier  and  the  official  inquisitors,  which  had  annoyed  him 
greatly.  Hence,  one  fine  morning,  feeling  himself  better, 

116 


THREE  HUMAN  HEARTS.  117 

he  had  left  his  golden  spurs  with  the  leech  as  payment,  and 
had  slipped  away.  This  had  not,  however,  interfered  with 
the  progress  of  the  affair.  Justice,  at  that  epoch,  troubled 
itself  very  little  about  the  clearness  and  definiteness  of  a 
criminal  suit.  Provided  that  the  accused  was  hung,  that  was 
all  that  was  necessary.  Now  the  judge  had  plenty  of  proofs 
against  la  Esmeralda.  They  had  supposed  Phoebus  to  be 
dead,  and  that  was  the  end  of  the  matter. 

Phoebus,  on  his  side,  had  not  fled  far.  He  had  simply 
rejoined  his  company  in  garrison  at  Queue-en-Brie,  in  the 
Isle-de-France,  a  few  stages  from  Paris. 

After  all,  it  did  not  please  him  in  the  least  to  appear  in 
this  suit.  He  had  a  vague  feeling  that  he  should  play  a 
ridiculous  figure  in  it.  On  the  whole,  he  did  not  know 
what  to  think  of  the  whole  affair.  Superstitious,  and  not 
given  to  devoutness,  like  every  soldier  who  is  only  a  soldier, 
when  he  came  to  question  himself  about  this  adventure,  he 
did  not  feel  assured  as  to  the  goat,  as  to  the  singular  fashion 
in  which  he  had  met  La  Esmei'alda,  as  to  the  no  less  strange 
manner  in  which  she  had  allowed  him  to  divine  her  love,  as 
to  her  character  as  a  gypsy,  and  lastly,  as  to  the  surly  monk. 
He  perceived  in  all  these  incidents  much  more  magic  than 
love,  probably  a  sorceress,  perhaps  the  devil ;  a  comedy,  in 
short,  or  to  speak  in  the  language  of  that  day,  a  very  disa- 
greeable mystery,  in  which  he  played  a  very  awkward  part, 
the  role  of  blows  and  derision.  The  captain  was  quite  put 
out  of  countenance  about  it;  he  experienced  that  sort  of 
shame  which  our  La  Fontaine  has  so  admirably  defined,  — 

Ashamed  as  a  fox  who  has  been  caught  by  a  fowl. 

Moreover,  he  hoped  that  the  affair  would  not  get  noised 
abroad,  that  his  name  would  hardly  be  pronounced  in  it, 
and  that  in  any  case  it  would  not  go  beyond  the  courts  of  the 
Tournelle.  In  this  he  was  not  mistaken,  there  was  then  no 
Gazette  des  Tribunaux;  and  as  not  a  week  passed  which  had 
not  its  counterfeiter  to  boil,  or  its  witch  to  hang,  or  its  here- 
tic to  burn,  at  some  one  of  the  innumerable  justices  of  Pans, 


118  NOTRE-DAME. 

people  were  so  accustomed  to  seeing  in  all  the  squares  the 
ancient  feudal  Themis,  bare  armed,  with  sleeves  stripped  up, 
performing  her  duty  at  the  gibbets,  the  ladders,  and  the  pillo- 
ries, that  they  hardly  paid  any  heed  to  it.  Fashionable 
society  of  that  day  hardly  knew  the  name  of  the  victim  who 
passed  by  at  the  corner  of  the  street,  and  it  was  the  populace 
at  the  most  who  regaled  themselves  with  this  coarse  fare.  An 
execution  was  an  habitual  incident  of  the  public  highways, 
like  the  braising-pan  of  the  baker  or  the  slaughter-house  of 
the  knacker.  The  executioner  was  only  a  sort  of  butcher  of 
a  little  deeper  dye  than  the  rest. 

Hence  Phoebus's  mind  was  soon  at  ease  on  the  score  of  the 
enchantress  Esmeralda,  or  Similar,  as  he  called  her,  concern- 
ing the  blow  from  the  dagger  of  the  Bohemian  or  of  the  surly, 
monk  (it  mattered  little  which  to  him),  and  as  to  the  issue  of 
the  trial.  But  as  soon  as  his  heart  was  vacant  in  that  direc- 
tion, Fleur-de-Lys  returned  to  it.  Captain  Fhcebus's  heart, 
like  the  physics  of  that  day,  abhorred  a  vacuum. 

Queue-en-Brie  was  a  very  insipid  place  to  stay  at  then,  a 
village  of  farriers,  and  cow-girls  with  chapped  hands,  a  long 
line  of  poor  dwellings  and  thatched  cottages,  which  borders 
the  grand  road  on  both  sides  for  half  a  league ;  a  tail  (queue), 
in  short,  as  its  name  imports. 

Fleur-de-Lys  was  his  last  passion  but  one,  a  pretty  girl,  a 
charming  dowry;  accordingly,  one  fine  morning,  quite  cured, 
and  assuming  that,  after  the  lapse  of  two  months,  the  Bohe- 
mian affair  must  be  completely  finished  and  forgotten,  the 
amorous  cavalier  arrived  on  a  prancing  horse  at  the  door  of 
the  Gondelaurier  mansion. 

He  paid  no  attention  to  a  tolerably  numerous  rabble  which 
had  assembled  in  the  Place  du  Parvis,  before  the  portal  of 
Notre-Dame ;  he  remembered  that  it  was  the  month  of  May  ; 
he  supposed  that  it  was  some  procession,  some  Pentecost,  some 
festival,  hitched  his  horse  to  the  ring  at  the  door,  and  gayly 
ascended  the  stairs  to  his  beautiful  betrothed. 

She  was  alone  with  her  mother. 

The  scene  of  the  witch,  her  goat,  her  cursed  alphabet,  and 
Phoebus's  long  absences,  still  weighed  on  Fleur-de-Lys's  heart. 


THREE  HUMAN  HEARTS.  119 

Nevertheless,  when  she  beheld  her  captain  enter,  she  thought 
him  so  handsome,  his  doublet  so  new,  his  baldrick  so  shining, 
and  his  air  so  impassioned,  that  she  blushed  with  pleasure. 
The  noble  damsel  herself  was  more  charming  than  ever.  Her 
magnificent  blond  hair  was  plaited  in  a  ravishing  manner,  she 
was  dressed  entirely  in  that  sky  blue  which  becomes  fair 
people  so  well,  a  bit  of  coquetry  which  she  had  learned  from 
Colombe,  and  her  eyes  were  swimming  in  that  languor  of  love 
which  becomes  them  still  better. 

Phoebus,  who  had  seen  nothing  in  the  line  of  beauty,  since 
he  left  the  village  maids  of  Queue-en-Brie,  was  intoxicated 
with  Fleur-de-Lys,  which  imparted  to  our  officer  so  eager  and 
gallant  an  air,  that  his  peace  was  immediately  made.  Madame 
de  Gondelaurier  herself,  still  maternally  seated  in  her  big  arm- 
chair, had  not  the  heart  to  scold  him.  As  for  Fleur-de-Lys's 
reproaches,  they  expired  in  tender  cooings. 

The  young  girl  was  seated  near  the  window  still  embroider- 
ing her  grotto  of  Neptune.  The  captain  was  leaning  over  the 
back  of  her  ohair,  and  she  was  addressing  her  caressing  re- 
proaches to  him  in  a  low  voice. 

"  What  has  become  of  you  these  two  long  months,  wicked 
man  ?  " 

"  I  swear  to  you,"  replied  Phoebus,  somewhat  embarrassed 
by  the  question,  "  that  you  are  beautiful  enough  to  set  an  arch- 
bishop to  dreaming." 

She  could  not  repress  a  smile. 

"Good,  good,  sir.  Let  my  beauty  alone  and  answer  my 
question.  A  fine  beauty,  in  sooth  !  " 

"  Well,  my  dear  cousin,  I  was  recalled  to  the  garrison." 

"  And  where  is  that,  if  you  please  ?  and  why  did  not  you 
come  to  say  farewell  ?  " 

u  At  Queue-en-Brie." 

Phoebus  was  delighted  with  the  first  question,  which  helped 
him  to  avoid  the  second. 

"  But  that  is  quite  close  by,  monsieur.  Why  did  you  not 
come  to  see  me  a  single  time  ?  " 

Here  Phoebus  was  rather  seriously  embarrassed. 

"Because— the  service  — and  then,  charming  cousin,  I 
have  been  ill." 


120  NOTItE-DAME. 

"  111 ! "  she  repeated  in  alarm. 

"  Yes,  wounded  ! " 

"Wounded!" 

She  poor  child  was  completely  upset. 

"  Oh !  do  not  be  frightened  at  that,"  said  Phrebus,  carelessly, 
"it  was  nothing.  A  quarrel,  a  sword  cut;  what  is  that  to 
you  ?  " 

"  What  is  that  to  me  ?  "  exclaimed  Fleur-de-Lys,  raising  her 
beautiful  eyes  filled  with  tears.  "  Oh !  you  do  not  say  what 
you  think  when  you  speak  thus.  What  sword  cut  was  that  ? 
I  wish  to  know  all." 

"  Well,  my  dear  fair  one,  I  had  a  falling  out  with  Mahe  Fi'ily. 
you  know  ?  the  lieutenant  of  Saint-Germain-en-Laye,  and  we 
ripped  open  a  few  inches  of  skin  for  each  other.  That  is  all." 

The  mendacious  captain  was  perfectly  well  aware  that  an 
affair  of  honor  always  makes  a  man  stand  well  in  the  eyes  of  a 
woman.  In  fact,  Fleur-de-Lys  looked  him  full  in  the  face,  all 
agitated  with  fear,  pleasure,  and  admiration.  Still,  she  was 
not  completely  reassured. 

"  Provided  that  you  are  wholly  cured,  my  Phoebus ! "  said 
she.  "  I  do  not  know  your  Mahe  Fedy,  but  he  is  a  villanous 
man.  And  whence  arose  this  quarrel  ?  " 

Here  Phoebus,  whose  imagination  was  endowed  with  but 
mediocre  power  of  creation,  began  to  find  himself  in  a  quan- 
dary as  to  a  means  of  extricating  himself  for  his  prowess. 

"  Oh  !  how  do  I  know  ?  —  a  mere  nothing,  a  horse,  a  remark  ! 
Fair  cousin,"  he  exclaimed,  for  the  sake  of  changing  the  con- 
versation, "  what  noise  is  this  in  the  Cathedral  Square  ?  " 

He  approached  the  window. 

"  Oh !  Mon  Dieu,  fair  cousin,  how  many  people  there  are  on 
the  Place ! " 

"  I  know  not,"  said  Fleur-de-Lys ;  "  it  appears  that  a  witch 
is  to  do  penance  this  morning  before  the  church,  and  there- 
after to  be  hung." 

The  captain  was  so  thoroughly  persuaded  that  la  Esmeral da's 
affair  was  concluded,  that  he  was  but  little  disturbed  by  Fleur- 
de-Lys's  words.  Still,  he  asked  her  one  or  two  questions. 

"  What  is  the  name  of  this  witch  ?  " 


THREE  HUMAN  HEARTS.  121 

"  I  do  not  know,"  she  replied. 

"  And  what  is  she  said  to  have  done  ?  " 

She  shrugged  her  white  shoulders. 

"I  know  not." 

"Oh,  moii  Dieu  Jesus!"  said  her  mother;  "there  are  so 
many  witches  nowadays  that  I  dare  say  they  burn  them  with- 
out knowing  their  names.  One  might  as  well  seek  the  name 
of  every  cloud  in  the  sky.  After  all,  one  may  be  tranquil. 
The  good  God  keeps  his  register."  Here  the  venerable  dame 
rose  and  came  to  the  window.  "  Good  Lord !  you  are  right, 
Phoebus,"  said  she.  "  The  rabble  is  indeed  great.  There  are 
people  on  all  the  roofs,  blessed  be  God!  Do  you  know, 
Phoebus,  this  reminds  me  of  my  best  days.  The  entrance  of 
King  Charles  VII.,  when,  also,  there  were  many  people.  I  no 
longer  remember  in  what  year  that  was.  When  I  speak  of  this 
to  you,  it  produces  upon  you  the  effect,  —  does  it  not  ?  —  the 
effect  of  something  very  old,  and  upon  me  of  something  very 
young.  Oh !  the  crowd  was  far  finer  than  at  the  present  day. 
They  even  stood  upon  the  machicolations  of  the  Porte  Sainte- 
Antoine.  The  king  had  the  queen  on  a  pillion,  and  after 
their  highnesses  came  all  the  ladies  mounted  behind  all  the 
lords.  I  remember  that  they  laughed  loudly,  because  beside 
Amanyon  de  Gaiiande,  who  was  very  short  of  stature,  there 
rode  the  Sire  Matefelon,  a  chevalier  of  gigantic  size,  who  had 
killed  heaps  of  English.  It  was  very  fine.  A  procession  of 
all  the  gentlemen  of  France,  with  their  oriflammes  waving 
red  before  the  eye.  There  were  some  with  pennons  and  some 
with  banners.  How  can  I  tell  ?  the  Sire  de  Calan  with  a 
pennon ;  Jean  de  Chateaumorant  with  a  banner ;  the  Sire  de 
Courcy  with  a  banner,  and  a  more  ample  one  than  any  of  the 
others  except  the  Due  de  Bourbon.  Alas !  'tis  a  sad  thing 
to  think  that  all  that  has  existed  and  exists  no  longer ! " 

The  two  lovers  were  not  listening  to  the  venerable  dow- 
ager. Phoebus  had  returned  and  was  leaning  on  the  back  of 
his  betrothed's  chair,  a  charming  post  whence  his  libertine 
glance  plunged  into  all  the  openings  of  Fleur-de-Lys's  gorget. 
This  gorget  gaped  so  conveniently,  and  allowed  him  to  see  so 
many  exquisite  things  and  to  divine  so  many  more,  that 


122  NOTBE-DANE. 

Phoebus,  dazzled  by  this  skin  with  its  gleams  of  satin,  said 
to  himself,  "How  can  any  one  love  anything  but  a  fair 
skin  ?  " 

Both  were  silent.  The  young  girl  raised  sweet,  enraptured 
eyes  to  him  from  time  to  time,  and  their  hair  mingled  in  a 
ray  of  spring  sunshine. 

"  Phoebus,"  said  Fleur-de-Ly  s  suddenly,  in  a  low  voice,  "  we 
are  to  be  married  three  months  hence  ;  swear  to  me  that  you 
have  never  loved  any  other  woman  than  myself." 

"  I  swear  it,  fair  angel !  "  replied  Phoebus,  and  his  passion- 
ate glances  aided  the  sincere  tone  of  his  voice  in  convincing 
Fleur-de-Ly  s. 

Meanwhile,  the  good  mother,  charmed  to  see  the  betrothed 
pair  on  terms  of  such  perfect  understanding,  had  just  quitted 
the  apartment  to  attend  to  some  domestic  matter;  Phoebus 
observed  it,  and  this  so  emboldened  the  adventurous  captain 
that  very  strange  ideas  mounted  to  his  brain.  Fleur-de-Lys 
loved  him,  he  was  her  betrothed ;  she  was  alone  with  him ; 
his  former  taste  for  her  had  re-awakened,  not  with  all  its  fresh- 
ness but  with  all  its  ardor ;  after  all,  there  is  no  great  harm 
in  tasting  one's  wheat  while  it  is  still  in  the  blade ;  I  do  not 
know  whether  these  ideas  passed  through  his  mind,  but  one 
thing  is  certain,  that  Fleur-de  Lys  was  suddenly  alarmed  by 
the  expression  of  his  glance.  She  looked  round  and  saw  that 
her  mother  was  no  longer  there. 

"  Good  heavens ! "  said  she,  blushing  and  uneasy,  "  how 
very  warm  I  am  ?  " 

"  I  think,  in  fact,"  replied  Phoebus,  "  that  it  cannot  be  far 
from  midday.  The  sun  is  troublesome.  We  need  only  lower 
the  curtains." 

"  No,  no,"  exclaimed  the  poor  little  thing,  "  on  the  contrary, 
I  need  air." 

And  like  a  fawn  who  feels  the  breath  of  the  pack  of 
hounds,  she  rose,  ran  to  the  window,  opened  it,  and  rushed 
upon  the  balcony. 

Phoebus,  much  discomfited,  followed  her. 

The  Place  du  Parvis  Xotre-Dame,  upon  which  the  balcony 
looked,  as  the  reader  knows,  presented  at  that  moment  a 


THREE  HUMAN  HEARTS.  123 

singular  and  sinister  spectacle  which  caused  the  fright  of  the 
timid  Fleur-de-Lys  to  change  its  nature. 

An  immense  crowd,  which  overflowed  into  all  the  neighbor- 
ing streets,  encumbered  the  Place,  properly  speaking.  The 
little  wall,  breast  high,  which  surrounded  the  Place,  would 
not  have  sufficed  to  keep  it  free  had  it  not  been  lined  with  a 
thick  hedge  of  sergeants  and  hackbuteers,  culverines  in  hand. 
Thanks  to  this  thicket  of  pikes  and  arquebuses,  the  Parvis 
was  empty.  Its  entrance  was  guarded  by  a  force  of  halberd- 
iers with  the  armorial  bearings  of  the  bishop.  The  large 
doors  of  the  church  were  closed,  and  formed  a  contrast  with 
the  innumerable  windows  on  the  Place,  which,  open  to  their 
very  gables,  allowed  a  view  of  thousands  of  heads  heaped  up 
almost  like  the  piles  of  bullets  in  a  park  of  artillery. 

The  surface  of  this  rabble  was  dingy,  dirty,  earthy.  The 
spectacle  which  it  was  expecting  was  evidently  one  of  the 
sort  which  possess  the  privilege  of  bringing  out  and  calling 
together  the  vilest  among  the  populace.  Nothing  is  so  hide- 
ous as  the  noise  which  was  made  by  that  swarm  of  yellow  caps 
and  dirty  heads.  In  that  throng  there  were  more  laughs  than 
cries,  more  women  Jhan  men. 

From  time  to  time,  a  sharp  and  vibrating  voice  pierced 
the  general  clamor. 

"  Ohe  !  Mahiet  Baliff re  !  Is  she  to  be  hung  yonder  ?  " 

"  Fool !    t'is  here  that  she  is  to  make  her  apology  in  her 

shift !    the  good  God  is  going  to  cough  Latin  in  her  face ! 

That  is  always  done  here,  at  midday.     If  'tis  the  gallows  that 

you  wish,  go  to  the  Greve." 
"  I  will  go  there,  afterwards." 

"Tell  me,  la  Boucanbry  ?  Is  it  true  that  she  has  refused  a 
confessor  ?  " 

"  It  appears  so,  La  Bechaigne." 
"  You  see  what  a  pagan  she  is  ! " 

"  'Tis  the  custom,  monsieur.  The  bailiff  of  the  courts  is 
bound  to  deliver  the  malefactor  ready  judged  for  execution,  if 


124 

he  be  a  layman,  to  the  provost  of  Paris;  if  a  clerk,  to  the 
official  of  the  bishopric." 
"  Thank  you,  sir." 

•  •••••• 

"  Oh,  God ! "  said  Fleur-de-Lys,  "  the  poor  creature  !  " 

This  thought  filled  with  sadness  the  glance  which  she  cast 
upon  the  populace.  The  captain,  much  more  occupied  with 
her  than  with  that  pack  of  the  rabble,  was  amorously  rump- 
ling her  girdle  behind.  She  turned  round,  entreating  and 
smiling. 

"  Please  let  me  alone,  Phoebus  !  If  my  mother  were  to  re- 
turn, she  would  see  your  hand ! " 

At  that  moment,  midday  rang  slowly  out  from  the  clock  of 
Notre-Dame.  A  murmur  of  satisfaction  broke  out  in  the 
crowd.  The  last  vibration  of  the  twelfth  stroke  had  hardly 
died  away  when  all  heads  surged  like  the  waves  beneath  a 
squall,  and  an  immense  shout  went  up  from  the  pavement, 
the  windows,  and  the  roofs,  — 

"  There  she  is  !  " 

Fleur-de-Lys  pressed  her  hands  to  her  eyes,  that  she  might 
not  see. 

"  Charming  girl,"  said  Phoebus,  "  do  you  wish  to  with- 
draw ?  " 

"No,"  she  replied;  and  she  opened  through  curiosity,  the 
eyes  which  she  had  closed  through  fear. 

A  tumbrel  drawn  by  a  stout  Norman  horse,  and  all  sur- 
rounded by  cavalry  in  violet  livery  with  white  crosses,  had 
just  debouched  upon  the  Place  through  the  Kue  Saint-Pierre- 
aux-Boeufs.  The  sergeants  of  the  watch  were  clearing  a  pas- 
sage for  it  through  the  crowd,  by  stout  blows  from  their  clubs. 
Beside  the  cart  rode  several  officers  of  justice  and  police,  rec- 
ognizable by  their  black  costume  and  their  awkwardness  in 
the  saddle.  Master  Jacques  Charmolue  paraded  at  their  head. 

In  the  fatal  cart  sat  a  young  girl  with  her  arms  tied  behind 
her  back,  and  with  no  priest  beside  her.  She  was  in  her  shift ; 
her  long  black  hair  (the  fashion  then  was  to  cut  it  off  only  at 
the  foot  of  the  gallows)  fell  in  disorder  upon  her  half-bared 
throat  and  shoulders. 


THREE  HUMAN  HEARTS.  125 

Athwart  that  waving  hair,  more  glossy  than  the  plumage  of 
a  raven,  a  thick,  rough,  gray  rope  was  visible,  twisted  and 
knotted,  chafing  her  delicate  collar-bones  and  twining  round 
the  charming  neck  of  the  poor  girl,  like  an  earthworm  round 
a  flower.  Beneath  that  rope  glittered  a  tiny  amulet  orna- 
mented with  bits  of  green  glass,  which  had  been  left  to  her  no 
doubt,  because  nothing  is  refused  to  those  who  are  about  to 
die.  The  spectators  in  the  windows  could  see  in  the  bottom 
of  the  cart  her  naked  legs  which  she  strove  to  hide  beneath 
her,  as  by  a  final  feminine  instinct.  At  her  feet  lay  a  little 
goat,  bound.  The  condemned  girl  held  together  with  her 
teeth  her  imperfectly  fastened  shift.  One  would  have  said 
that  she  suffered  still  more  in  her  misery  from  being  thus 
exposed  almost  naked  to  the  eyes  of  all.  Alas  !  modesty  is 
not  made  for  such  shocks. 

"  Jesus  !  "  said  Fleur-de-Lys  hastily  to  the  captain.  "  Look 
fair  cousin,  'tis  that  wretched  Bohemian  with  the  goat." 

So  saying,  she  turned  to  Phosbus.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on 
the  tumbrel.  He  was  very  pale. 

"  What  Bohemian  with  the  goat  ?  "  he  stammered. 

"  What !  "  resumed  Fleur-de-Lys,  "  do  you  not  remember  ?  " 

Phoebus  interrupted  her. 

"  I  do  not  know  what  you  mean." 

He  made  a  step  to  re-enter  the  room,  but  Fleur-de-Lys, 
whose  jealousy,  previously  so  vividly  aroused  by  this  same 
gypsy,  had  just  been  re-awakened,  Fleur-de-Lys  gave  him  a 
look  full  of  penetration  and  distrust.  She  vaguely  recalled  at 
that  moment  having  heard  of  a  captain  mixed  up  in  the  trial 
of  that  witch. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  "  she  said  to  Phoebus,  "one 
would  say,  that  this  woman  had  disturbed  you." 

Phoebus  forced  a  sneer,  — 

"  Me  !     Not  the  least  in  the  world !     Ah  !  yes,  certainly ! " 

"  Remain,  then ! "  she  continued  imperiously,  "  and  let  us 
see  the  end." 

The  unlucky  captain  was  obliged  to  remain.  He  was  some- 
what reassured  by  the  fact  that  the  condemned  girl  never  re- 
moved her  eyes  from  the  bottom  of  the  cart.  It  was  but  too 


1 26  NO  TRE-DA  M  K. 

surely  la  Esmeralda.  In  this  last  stage  of  opprobrium  and 
misfortune,  she  was  still  beautiful ;  her  great  black  eyes  ap- 
peared still  larger,  because  of  the  emaciation  of  her  cheeks ; 
her  pale  profile  was  pure  and  sublime.  She  resembled  what 
she  had  been,  in  the  same  degree  that  a  virgin  by  Masaccio, 
resembles  a  virgin  of  Raphael,  —  weaker,  thinner,  more  deli- 
cate. 

Moreover,  there  was  nothing  in  her  which  was  not  shaken 
in  some  sort,  and  which  with  the  exception  of  her  modesty, 
she  did  not  let  go  at  will,  so  profoundly  had  she  been  broken 
by  stupor  and  despair.  Her  body  bounded  at  every  jolt  of 
the  tumbrel  like  a  dead  or  broken  thing  ;  her  gaze  was  dull  and 
imbecile.  A  tear  was  still  visible  in  her  eyes,  but  motionless 
and  frozen,  so  to  speak. 

Meanwhile,  the  lugubrious  cavalcade  has  traversed  the  croAvd 
amid  cries  of  joy  and  curious  attitudes.  But  as  a  faithful  his- 
torian, we  must  state  that  on  beholding  her  so  beautiful,  so 
depressed,  many  were  moved  with  pity,  even  among  the  hard- 
est of  them. 

The  tumbrel  had  entered  the  Parvis. 

It  halted  before  the  central  portal.  The  escort  ranged 
themselves  in  line  on  both  sides.  The  crowd  became  silent, 
and,  in  the  midst  of  this  silence  full  of  anxiety  and  solemnity, 
the  two  leaves  of  the  grand  door  swung  back,  as  of  them- 
selves, on  their  hinges,  which  gave  a  creak  like  the  sound  of 
a  fife.  Then  there  became  visible  in  all  its  length,  the  deep, 
gloomy  church,  hung  in  black,  sparely  lighted  with  a  few  can- 
dles gleaming  afar  off  on  the  principal  altar,  opened  in  the 
midst  of  the  Place  which  was  dazzling  with  light,  like  the 
mouth  of  a  cavern.  At  the  very  extremity,  in  the  gloom  of 
the  apse,  a  gigantic  silver  cross  was  visible  against  a  black 
drapery  which  hung  from  the  vault  to  the  pavement.  The 
whole  nave  was  deserted.  But  a  few  heads  of  priests  could 
be  seen  moving  confusedly  in  the  distant  choir  stalls,  and,  at 
the  moment  when  the  great  door  opened,  there  escaped  from 
the  church  a  loud,  solemn,  and. monotonous  chanting,  which 
cast  over  the  head  of  the  condemned  girl,  in  gusts,  fragments 
of  melancholy  psalms,  — 


THREE  HUMAN  HEARTS.  127 

"  Non  timebo  millia  populi  circumdantis  me :  exsurge,  Dom- 
ine  ;  salvum  me  fac,  Deusf" 

"  Salvum  me  fac,  Deus,  quoniam  intraverunt  aquce  usque  ad 
animam  meam. 

"  Infixiis  sum  in  limo  profundi  ;  et  non  est  substantial 

At  the  same  time,  another  voice,  separate  from  the  choir, 
intoned  upon  the  steps  of  the  chief  altar,  this  melancholy 
offertory,  — 

"  Qui  verbum  meum  audit,  et  credit  ei  qui  misit  me,  habet 
vitam  ceternam  et  in  judicium  non  venit ;  sed  transit  a  morte 
in  vitam."  * 

This  chant,  which  a  few  old  men  buried  in  the  gloom  sang 
from  afar  over  that  beautiful  creature,  full  of  youth  and  life, 
caressed  by  the  warm  air  of  spring,  inundated  with  sunlight, 
was  the  mass  for  the  dead. 

The  people  listened  devoutly. 

The  unhappy  girl  seemed  to  lose  her  sight  and  her  con- 
sciousness in  the  obscure  interior  of  the  church.  Her  white 
lips  moved  as  though  in  prayer,  and  the  headsman's  assistant 
who  approached  to  assist  her  to  alight  from  the  cart,  heard 
her  repeating  this  word  in  a  low  tone,  —  "  Phoebus." 

They  untied  her  hands,  made  her  alight,  accompanied  by  her 
goat,  Avhich  had  also  been  unbound,  and  which  bleated  with 
joy  at  finding  itself  free  :  and  they  made  her  walk  barefoot  on 
the  hard  pavement  to  the  foot  of  the  steps  leading  to  the  door. 
The  rope  about  her  neck  trailed  behind  her.  One  would  have 
said  it  was  a  serpent  following  her. 

Then  the  chanting  in  the  church  ceased.  A  great  golden 
cross  and  a  row  of  wax  candles  began  to  move  through  the 
gloom.  The  halberds  of  the  motley  beadles  clanked ;  and,  a 
few  moments  later,  a  long  procession  of  priests  in  chasubles, 
and  deacons  in  dalmatics,  marched  gravely  towards  the  con- 
demned girl,  as  they  drawled  their  song,  spread  out  before  her 
view  and  that  of  the  crowd.  But  her  glance  rested  on  the  one 
who  marched  at  the  head,  immediately  after  the  cross-bearer. 

*  "  He  that  heareth  my  word  and  believeth  on  Him  that  sent  me,  hath 
eternal  life,  and  hath  not  come  into  condemnation ;  but  is  passed  from 
death  to  life." 


128  NOTRE-DAME. 

"  Oh  ! "  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  and  with  a  shudder,  "  'tis 
he  again !  the  priest ! " 

It  was  in  fact,  the  archdeacon.  On  his  left  he  had  the  sub- 
chanter,  on  his  right,  the  chanter,  armed  with  his  official 
wand.  He  advanced  with  head  thrown  back,  his  eyes  fixed 
and  wide  open,  intoning  in  a  strong  voice,  — 

"  De  venire  inferi  clamavi,  et  exaudisti  vocem  meam. 

"  Et  projecisti  me  in  profundum  in  corde  marts,  et  flumen  cir- 
cumdedit  me"  * 

At  the  moment  when  he  made  his  appearance  in  the  full 
daylight  beneath  the  lofty  arched  portal,  enveloped  in  an 
ample  cope  of  silver  barred  with  a  black  cross,  he  was  so  pale 
that  more  than  one  person  in  the  crowd  thought  that  one  of 
the  marble  bishops  who  knelt  on  the  sepulchral  stones  of  the 
choir  had  risen  and  was  come  to  receive  upon  the  brink  of 
the  tomb,  the  woman  who  was  about  to  die. 

She,  no  less  pale,  no  less  like  a  statue,  had  hardly  noticed 
that  they  had  placed  in  her  hand  a  heavy,  lighted  candle  of 
yellow  wax ;  she  had  not  heard  the  yelping  voice  of  the  clerk 
reading  the  fatal  contents  of  the  apology ;  when  they  told  her 
to  respond  with  Amen,  she  responded  Amen.  She  only  recov- 
ered life  and  force  when  she  beheld  the  priest  make  a  sign 
to  her  guards  to  withdraw,  and  himself  advance  alone  towards 
her. 

Then  she  felt  her  blood  boil  in  her  head,  and  a  remnant  of 
indignation  flashed  up  in  that  soul  already  benumbed  and  cold. 

The  archdeacon  approached  her  slowly ;  even  in  that  ex- 
tremity, she  beheld  him  cast  an  eye  sparkling  with  sensuality, 
jealousy,  and  desire,  over  her  exposed  form.  Then  he  said 
aloud,  — 

"  Young  girl,  have  you  asked  God's  pardon  for  your  faults 
and  shortcomings  ?  " 

He  bent  down  to  her  ear,  and  added  (the  spectators  sup- 
posed that  he  was  receiving  her  last  confession)  :  "  Will  you 
have  me  ?  I  can  still  save  you  ! " 

*  "  Out  of  the  belly  of  hell  cried  I.  and  thou  heardest  my  voice.  For 
thoti  hadst  cast  me  into  the  deep  in  the  midst  of  the  seas,  and  the  floods 
compassed  me  about." 


THREE  HUMAN  HEARTS.  129 

She  looked  intently  at  him :  "  Begone,  demon,  or  I  will 
denounce  you !  " 

He  gave  vent  to  a  horrible  smile :  "  You  will  not  be  be- 
lieved. You  will  only  add  a  scandal  to  a  crime.  Reply 
quickly  !  Will  you  have  me  ?  " 

"  What  have  you  done  with  my  Phoebus  ?  " 

"  He  is  dead  ! "  said  the  priest. 

At  that  moment  the  wretched  archdeacon  raised  his  head 
mechanically  and  beheld  at  the  other  end  of  the  Place,  in  the 
balcony  of  the  Gondelaurier  mansion,  the  captain  standing 
beside  Fleur-de-Lys.  He  staggered,  passed  his  hand  across 
his  eyes,  looked  again,  muttered  a  curse,  and  all  his  features 
were  violently  contorted. 

"  Well,  die  then  ! "  he  hissed  between  his  teeth.  "  No  one 
shall  have  you."  Then,  raising  his  hand  over  the  gypsy,  he 
exclaimed  in  a  funereal  voice  :  —  "  /  nunc,  anima  anceps,  et 
sit  tibi  Deus  misericors  !  "  * 

This  was  the  dread  formula  with  which  it  was  the  custom 
to  conclude  these  gloomy  ceremonies.  It  was  the  signal 
agreed  upon  between  the  priest  and  the  executioner. 

The  crowd  knelt. 

"  Kyrie  eleison,"  f  said  the  priests,  who  had  remained  be- 
neath the  arch  of  the  portal. 

"  Kyrie  eleison,"  repeated  the  throng  in  that  murmur  which 
runs  over  all  heads,  like  the  waves  of  a  troubled  sea. 

"  Amen,"  said  the  archdeacon. 

He  turned  his  back  on  the  condemned  girl,  his  head  sank 
upon  his  breast  once  more,  he  crossed  his  hands  and  rejoined 
his  escort  of  priests,  and  a  moment  later  he  was  seen  to  dis 
appear,  with  the  cross,  the  candles,  and  the  copes,  beneath  the 
misty  arches  of  the  cathedral,  and  his  sonorous  voice  was 
extinguished  by  degrees  in  the  choir,  as  he  chanted  this  verse 
of  despair, —  f  ^ 

"  Omnes  yuryites  tui  et  fluctus  tui  super  me  transient**.    I 

*  "  Go  now,  soul,  trembling  in  the  balance,  and  God  have  mercy  upon 
thee." 

t  "  Lord  have  mercy  upon  us."  ?> 

t  "  All  thy  waves  and  thy  billows  have  gone  over  me. 


130  NOT  RE-DAME. 

At  the  same  time,  the  intermittent  clash  of  the  iron  butts 
of  the  beadles'  halberds,  gradually  dying  away  among  the  col- 
umns of  the  nave,  produced  the  effect  of  a  clock  hammer 
striking  the  last  hour  of  the  condemned. 

The  doors  of  Notre-Dame  remained  open,  allowing  a  view 
of  the  empty  desolate  church,  draped  in  mourning,  without 
candles,  and  without  voices. 

The  condemned  girl  remained  motionless  in  her  place,  wait- 
ing to  be  disposed  of.  One  of  the  sergeants  of  police  was 
obliged  to  notify  Master  Charinolue  of  the  fact,  as  the  latter, 
during  this  entire  scene,  had  been  engaged  in  studying  the 
bas-relief  of  the  grand  portal  which  represents,  according  to 
some,  the  sacrifice  of  Abraham ;  according  to  others,  the  phil- 
osopher's alchemical  operation :  the  sun  being  figured  forth 
by  the  angel ;  the  fire,  by  the  fagot ;  the  artisan,  by  Abraham. 

There  was  considerable  difficulty  in  drawing  him  away  from 
that  contemplation,  but  at  length  he  turned  round ;  and,  at  a 
signal  which  he  gave,  two  men  clad  in  yellow,  the  executioner's 
assistants,  approached  the  gypsy  to  bind  her  hands  once  more. 

The  unhappy  creature,  at  the  moment  of  mounting  once 
again  the  fatal  cart,  and  proceeding  to  her  last  halting-place, 
was  seized,  possibly,  with  some  poignant  clinging  to  life. 
She  raised  her  dry,  red  eyes  to  heaven,  to  the  sun,  to  the 
silvery  clouds,  cut  here  and  there  by  a  blue  trapezium  or 
triangle ;  then  she  lowered  them  to  objects  around  her,  to  the 
earth,  the  throng,  the  houses ;  all  at  once,  while  the  yellow 
man  was  binding  her  elbows,  she  uttered  a  terrible  cry,  a  cry 
of  joy.  Yonder,  on  that  balcony,  at  the  corner  of  the  Place, 
she  had  just  caught  sight  of  him,  of  her  friend,  her  lord, 
Phoebus,  the  other  apparition  of  her  life  ! 

The  judge  had  lied !  the  priest  had  lied  !  it  was  certainly  he, 
she  could  not  doubt  it ;  he  was  there,  handsome,  alive,  dressed 
in  his  brilliant  uniform,  his  plume  on  his  head,  his  sword  by 
his  side  ! 

"  Phoebus  !  "  she  cried,  "  my  Phoebus  ! " 

And  she  tried  to  stretch  towards  him  arms  trembling  with 
love  and  rapture,  but  they  were  bound. 

Then  she  saw  the  captain  frown,  a  beautiful  young  girl  who 


THREE  HUMAN  HEARTS. 

was  leaning  against  him  gazed  at  him  with  disdainful  lips  and 
irritated  eyes;  then  Phoebus  uttered  some  words  which  did 
not  reach  her,  and  both  disappeared  precipitately  behind  the 
window  opening  upon  the  balcony,  which  closed  after  them. 

"  Phoebus  !  "  she  cried  wildly,  "  can  it  be  you  believe  it  ?  " 

A  monstrous  thought  had  just  presented  itself  to  her.  She 
remembered  that  she  had  been  condemned  to  death  for  murder 
committed  on  the  person  of  Phoebus  de  Chateaupers. 

She  had  borne  up  until  that  moment.  But  this  last  blow 
was  too  harsh.  She  fell  lifeless  on  the  pavement. 

"  Come,"  said  Charmolue,  "  carry  her  to  the  cart,  and  make 
an  end  of  it." 

No  one  had  yet  observed  in  the  gallery  of  the  statues  of  the 
kings,  carved  directly  above  the  arches  of  the  portal,  a  strange 
spectator,  who  had,  up  to  that  time,  observed  everything  with 
such  impassiveness,  with  a  neck  so  strained,  a  visage  so  hide- 
ous that,  in  his  motley  accoutrement  of  red  and  violet,  he 
might  have  been  taken  for  one  of  those  stone  monsters 
through  whose  mouths  the  long  gutters  of  the  cathedral  have 
discharged  their  waters  for  six  hundred  years.  This  spectator 
had  missed  nothing  that  had  taken  place  since  midday  io 
front  of  the  portal  of  Notre-Dame.  And  at  the  very  begin- 
ning he  had  securely  fastened  to  one  of  the  small  columns  a 
large  knotted  rope,  one  end  of  which  trailed  on  the  flight  of 
steps  below.  This  being  done,  he  began  to  look  on  tranquilly, 
whistling  from  time  to  time  when  a  blackbird  flitted  past. 

Suddenly,  at  the  moment  when  the  superintendent's  assist- 
ants were  preparing  to  execute  Charmolue's  phlegmatic  order, 
he  threw  his  leg  over  the  balustrade  of  the  gallery,  seized  the 
rope  with  his  feet,  his  knees  and  his  hands  ;  then  he  was  seen 
to  glide  down  the  facade,  as  a  drop  of  rain  slips  down  a  win- 
dow-pane, rush  to  the  two  executioners  with  the  swiftness  of  a 
cat  which  has  fallen  from  a  roof,  knock  them  down  with  two 
enormous  fists,  pick  up  the  gypsy  with  one  hand,  as  a  child 
would  her  doll,  and  dash  back  into  the  church  with  a  single 
bound,  lifting  the  young  girl  above  his  head  and  crying  in  a 
formidable  voice,  — 

"  Sanctuary  ! " 


132  NOTRE-DAME. 

This  was  done  with  such  rapidity,  that  had  it  taken  place  at 
night,  the  whole  of  it  could  have  been  seen  in  the  space  of  a 
single  flash  of  lightning. 

"  Sanctuary  !  Sanctuary  !  "  repeated  the  crowd  ;  and  the 
clapping  of  ten  thousand  hands  made  Quasimodo's  single  eye 
sparkle  with  joy  and  pride. 

This  shock  restored  the  condemned  girl  to  her  senses.  She 
raised  her  eyelids,  looked  at  Quasimodo,  then  closed  them 
again  suddenly,  as  though  terrified  by  her  deliverer. 

Charmolue  was  stupefied,  as  well  as  the  executioners  and  the 
entire  escort.  In  fact,  within  the  bounds  of  Xotre-Danie,  the 
condemned  girl  could  not  be  touched.  The  cathedral  was  a 
place  of  refuge.  All  temporal  jurisdiction  expired  upon  its 
threshold. 

Quasimodo  had  halted  beneath  the  great  portal,  his  huge 
feet  seemed  as  solid  on  the  pavement  of  the  church  as  the 
heavy  Koman  pillars.  His  great,  bushy  head  sat  low  between 
his  shoulders,  like  the  heads  of  lions,  who  also  have  a  mane 
and  no  neck.  He  held  the  young  girl,  who  was  quivering  all 
over,  suspended  from  his  horny  hands  like  a  white  drapery  : 
but  he  carried  her  with  as  much  care  as  though  he  feared 
to  break  her  or  blight  her.  One  would  have  said  that  he  felt  that 
she  was  a  delicate,  exquisite,  precious  thing,  made  for  other 
hands  than  his.  There  were  moments  when  he  looked  as  if 
not  daring  to  touch  her,  even  with  his  breath.  Then,  all  at  once, 
he  would  press  her  forcibly  in  his  arms,  against  his  angular 
bosom,  like  his  own  possession,  his  treasure,  as  the  mother  of 
that  child  would  have  done.  His  gnome's  eye,  fastened  upon 
her,  inundated  her  with  tenderness,  sadness,  and  pity,  and  was 
suddenly  raised  filled  with  lightnings.  Then  the  women 
laughed  and  wept,  the  crowd  stamped  with  enthusiasm,  for,  at 
that  moment  Quasimodo  had  a  beauty  of  his  own.  He  was 
handsome;  he,  that  orphan,  that  foundling,  that  outcast,  he 
felt  himself  august  and  strong,  he  gazed  in  the  face  of  that 
society  from  which  lie  was  banished,  and  in  which  he  had  so 
powerfully  intervened,  of  that  human  justice  from  which  he 
had  wrenched  its  prey,  of  all  those  tigers  whose  jaws  were 
forced  to  remain  empty,  of  those  policemen,  those  judges, 


THREE  HUMAN  HEARTS.  133 

those  executioners,  of  all  that  force  of  the  king  which  he, 
the  meanest  of  creatures,  had  just  broken,  with  the  force  of 
God. 

And  then,  it  was  touching  to  behold  this  protection  which 
had  fallen  from  a  being  so  hideous  upon  a  being  so  unhappy, 
a  creature  condemned  to  death  saved  by  Quasimodo.  They 
were  two  extremes  of  natural  and  social  wretchedness,  coming 
into  contact  and  aiding  each  other. 

Meanwhile,-  after  several  moments  of  triumph,  Quasimodo 
had  plunged  abruptly  into  the  church  with  his  burden.  The 
populace,  fond  of  all  prowess,  sought  him  with  their  eyes, 
beneath  the  gloomy  nave,  regretting  that  he  had  so  speedily 
disappeared  from  their  acclamations.  All  at  once,  he  was 
seen  to  re-appear  at  one  of  the  extremities  of  the  gallery  of 
the  kings  of  France ;  he  traversed  it,  running  like  a  madman, 
raising  his  conquest  high  in  his  arms  and  shouting :  "  Sanc- 
tuary ! "  The  crowd  broke  forth  into  fresh  applause.  The 
gallery  passed,  he  plunged  once  more  into  the  interior  of  the 
church.  A  moment  later,  he  re-appeared  upon  the  upper 
platform,  with  the  gypsy  still  in  his  arms,  still  running 
madly,  still  crying,  "  Sanctuary ! "  and  the  throng  applauded. 
Finally,  he  made  his  appearance  for  the  third  time  upon  the 
summit  of  the  tower  where  hung  the  great  bell ;  from  that 
point  he  seemed  to  be  showing  to  the  entire  city  the  girl 
whom  he  had  saved,  and  his  voice  of  thunder,  that  voice 
which  was  so  rarely  heard,  and  which  he  never  heard  himself, 
repeated  thrice  with  frenzy,  even  to  the  clouds  :  "  Sanctuary ! 
Sanctuary  !  Sanctuary  !  " 

"  Xoel !  Noel ! "  shouted  the  populace  in  its  turn ;  and  that 
immense  acclamation  flew  to  astonish  the  crowd  assembled 
at  the  Greve  on  the  other  bank,  and  the  recluse  who  was  still 
waiting  with  her  eyes  riveted  on  the  gibbet. 


BOOK  NINTH. 


CHAPTER  I. 

DELIRIUM. 

CLAUDE  FROLLO  was  no  longer  in  Notre-Dame  when  his 
adopted  son  so  abruptly  cut  the  fatal  web  in  which  the  arch- 
deacon and  the  gypsy  were  entangled.  On  returning  to  the 
sacristy  he  had  torn  off  his  alb,  cope,  and  stole,  had  flung  all 
into  the  hands  of  the  stupefied  beadle,  had  made  his  escape 
through  the  private  door  of  the  cloister,  had  ordered  a  boat- 
man of  the  Terrain  to  transport  him  to  the  left  bank  of  the 
Seine,  and  had  plunged  into  the  hilly  streets  of  the  Uni- 
versity, not  knowing  whither  he  was  going,  encountering  at 
every  step  groups  of  men  and  women  who  were  hurrying 
joyously  towards  the  Pont  Saint-Michel,  in  the  hope  of  still 
arriving  in  time  to  see  the  witch  hung  there,  —  pale,  wild, 
more  troubled,  more  blind  and  more  fierce  than  a  night  bird 
let  loose  and  pursued  by  a  troop  of  children  in  broad  day- 
light. He  no  longer  knew  where  he  was,  what  he  thought, 
or  whether  he  were  dreaming.  He  went  forward,  walking, 
running,  taking  any  street  at  haphazard,  making  no  choice, 
only  urged  ever  onward  away  from  the  Grove,  the  horrible 
Greve,  which  he  felt  confusedly,  to  be  behind  him. 

In  this  manner  he  skirted  Mount  Sainte-Genevieve,  and 
finally  emerged  from  the  town  by  the  Porte  Saint-Victor. 

135 


136  NOTRE-DAME. 

He  continued  his  flight  as  long  as  he  could  see,  when  he 
turned  round,  the  turreted  enclosure  of  the  University,  and 
the  rare  houses  of  the  suburb ;  but,  when,  at  length,  a  rise  of 
ground  had  completely  concealed  from  him  that  odious  Paris, 
when  he  could  believe  himself  to  be  a  hundred  leagues  dis- 
tant from  it,  in  the  fields,  in  the  desert,  he  halted,  and  it 
seemed  to  him  that  he  breathed  more  freely. 

Then  frightful  ideas  thronged  his  mind.  Once  more  he 
could  see  clearly  into  his  soul,  and  he  shuddered.  He 
thought  of  that  unhappy  girl  who  had  destroyed  him,  and 
whom  he  had  destroyed.  He  cast  a  haggard  eye  over  the 
double,  tortuous  way  which  fate  had  caused  their  two  desti- 
nies to  pursue  up  to  their  point  of  intersection,  where  it  had 
dashed  them  against  each  other  without  mercy.  He  medi- 
tated on  the  folly  of  eternal  vows,  on  the  vanity  of  chastity, 
of  science,  of  religion,  of  virtue,  on  the  uselessness  of  God. 
He  plunged  to  his  heart's  content  in  evil  thoughts,  and  in 
proportion  as  he  sank  deeper,  he  felt  a  Satanic  laugh  burst 
forth  within  him. 

And  as  he  thus  sifted  his  soul  to  the  bottom,  when  he  per- 
ceived how  large  a  space  nature  had  prepared  there  for  the 
passions,  he  sneered  still  more  bitterly.  He  stirred  up  in  the 
depths  of  his  heart  all  his  hatred,  all  his  malevolence ;  and, 
with  the  cold  glance  of  a  physician  who  examines  a  patient, 
he  recognized  the  fact  that  this  malevolence  was  nothing  but 
vitiated  love ;  that  love,  that  source  of  eveiy  virtue  in  man, 
turned  to  horrible  things  in  the  heart  of  a  priest,  and  that  a 
man  constituted  like  himself,  in  making  himself  a  priest, 
made  himself  a  demon.  Then  he  laughed  frightfully,  and 
suddenly  became  pale  again,  when  he  considered  the  most 
sinister  side  of  his  fatal  passion,  of  that  corrosive,  venomous 
malignant,  implacable  lover  which  had  ended  only  in  the  gib- 
bet for  one  of  them  and  in  hell  for  the  other ;  condemnation 
for  her,  damnation  for  him. 

And  then  his  laughter  came  again,  when  he  reflected  that 
Phoebus  was  alive ;  that  after  all,  the  captain  lived,  was  gay 
and  happy,  had  handsomer  doublets  than  ever,  and  a  new  mis- 
tress whom  he  was  conducting  to  see  the  old  one  hanged. 


DELIRIUM.  137 

His  sneer  redoubled  its  bitterness  when  lie  reflected  that  out 
of  the  living  beings  whose  death  he  had  desired,  the  gypsy, 
the  only  creature  whom  he  did  not  hate,  was  the  only  one  who 
had  not  escaped  him. 

Then  from  the  captain,  his  thought  passed  to  the  people, 
and  there  came  to  him  a  jealousy  of  an  unprecedented  sort. 
He  reflected  that  the  people  also,  the  entire  populace,  had 
had  before  their  eyes  the  woman  whom  he  loved  exposed 
almost  naked.  He  writhed  his  arms  with  agony  as  he  thought 
that  the  woman  whose  form,  caught  by  him  alone  in  the  dark- 
ness would  have  been  supreme  happiness,  had  been  delivered 
up  in  broad  daylight  at  full  noonday,  to  a  whole  people,  clad 
as  for  a  night  of  voluptuousness.  He  wept  with  rage  over  all 
these  mysteries  of  love,  profaned,  soiled,  laid  bare,  withered 
forever.  He  wept  with  rage  as  he  pictured  to  himself  how 
many  impure  looks  had  been  gratified  at  the  sight  of  that 
badly  fastened  shift,  and  that  this  beautiful  girl,  this  virgin 
lily,  this  cup  of  modesty  and  delight,  to  which  he  would  have 
dared  to  place  his  lips  only  trembling,  had  just  been  trans- 
formed into  a  sort  of  public  bowl,  whereat  the  vilest  populace 
of  Paris,  thieves,  beggars,  lackeys,  had  come  to  quaff  in  com- 
mon an  audacious,  impure,  and  depraved  pleasure. 

And  when  he  sought  to  picture  to  himself  the  happiness 
which  he  might  have  found  upon  earth,  if  she  had  not  been  a 
gypsy,  and  if  he  had  not  been  a  priest,  if  Phoebus  had  not 
existed  and  if  she  had  loved  him  ;  when  he  pictured  to  him- 
self that  a  life  of  serenity  and  love  would  have  been  possible 
to  him  also,  even  to  him ;  that  there  were  at  that  very  moment, 
here  and  there  upon  the  earth,  happy  couples  spending  the 
hours  in  sweet  converse  beneath  orange  trees,  on  the  banks  of 
brooks,  in  the  presence  of  a  setting  sun,  of  a  starry  night ; 
and  that  if  God  had  so  willed,  he  might  have  formed  with  her 
one  of  those  blessed  couples,  —  his  heart  melted  in  tenderness 
and  despair. 

Oh  !  she  !  still  she  !  It  was  this  fixed  idea  which  returned 
incessantly,  which  tortured  him,  which  ate  into  his  brain,  and 
rent  his  vitals.  He  did  not  regret,  he  did  not  repent ;  all  that 
he  had  done  he  was  ready  to  do  again  ;  he  preferred  to  behold 


138  NOTRE-DAXE. 

her  in  the  hands  of  the  executioner  rather  than  in  the  arms  of 
the  captain.  But  he  suffered ;  he  suffered  so  that  at  intervals 
he  tore  out  handfuls  of  his  hair  to  see  whether  it  were  not 
turning  white. 

Among  other  moments  there  came  one,  when  it  occurred  to 
him  that  it  was  perhaps  the  very  minute  when  the  hideous 
chain  which  he  had  seen  that  morning,  was  pressing  its  iron 
noose  closer  about  that  frail  and  graceful  neck.  This  thought 
caused  the  perspiration  to  start  from  every  pore. 

There  was  another  moment  when,  while  laughing  diaboli- 
cally at  himself,  he  represented  to  himself  la  Esmeralda  as  he 
had  seen  her  on  that  first  day,  lively,  careless,  joyous,  gayly 
attired,  dancing,  winged,  harmonious,  and  la  Esmeralda  of  the 
last  day,  in  her  scanty  shift,  with  a  rope  about  her  neck, 
mounting  slowly  with  her  bare  feet,  the  angular  ladder  of  the 
gallows ;  he  figured  to  himself  this  double  picture  in  such  a 
manner  that  he  gave  vent  to  a  terrible  cry. 

"While  this  hurricane  of  despair  overturned,  broke,  tore  up, 
bent,  uprooted  everything  in  his  soul,  he  gazed  at  nature 
around  him.  At  his  feet,  some  chickens  were  searching  the 
thickets  and  pecking,  enamelled  beetles  ran  about  in  the  sun ; 
overhead,  some  groups  of  dappled  gray  clouds  were  floating 
across  the  blue  sky ;  on  the  horizon,  the  spire  of  the  Abbey 
Saint-Victor  pierced  the  ridge  of  the  hill  with  its  slate  obe- 
lisk ;  and  the  miller  of  the  Copeaue  hillock  was  whistling  as 
he  watched  the  laborious  wings  of  his  mill  turning.  All  this 
active,  organized,  tranquil  life,  recurring  around  him  under 
a  thousand  forms,  hurt  him.  He  resumed  his  flight. 

He  sped  thus  across  the  fields  until  evening.  This  flight 
from  nature,  life,  himself,  man,  God,  everything,  lasted  all  day 
long.  Sometimes  he  flung  himself  face  downward  on  the 
earth,  and  tore  up  the  young  blades  of  wheat  with  his  nails. 
Sometimes  he  halted  in  the  deserted  street  of  a  village,  and 
his  thoughts  were  so  intolerable  that  he  grasped  his  head  in 
both  hands  and  tried  to  tear  it  from  his  shoulders  in  order 
to  dash  it  upon  the  pavement. 

Towards  the  hour  of  sunset,  he  examined  himself  again, 
and  found  himself  nearly  mad.  The  tempest  which  had  raged 


DELIRIUM.  139 

within  him  ever  since  the  instant  when  he  had  lost  the  hope 
and  the  will  to  save  the  gypsy,  —  that  tempest  had  not  left  in 
his  conscience  a  single  healthy  idea,  a  single  thought  which 
maintained  its  upright  position.  His  reason  lay  there  almost 
entirely  destroyed.  There  remained  but  two  distinct  images 
in  his  mind,  la  Esmeralda  and  the  gallows  ;  all  the  rest  was 
blank.  Those  two  images  united,  presented  to  him  a  frightful 
group ;  and  the  more  he  concentrated  what  attention  and 
thought  was  left  to  him,  the  more  he  beheld  them  grow,  in 
accordance  with  a  fantastic  progression,  the  one  in  grace,  in 
charm,  in  beauty,  in  light,  the  other  in  deformity  and  horror ; 
so  that  at  last  la  Esmeralda  appeared  to  him  like  a  star,  the 
gibbet  like  an  enormous,  fleshless  arm. 

One  remarkable  fact  is,  that  during  the  whole  of  this  tor- 
ture, the  idea  of  dying  did  not  seriously  occur  to  him.  The 
wretch  was  made  so.  He  clung  to  life.  Perhaps  he  really 
saw  hell  beyond  it. 

Meanwhile,  the  day  continued  to  decline.  The  living  being 
which  still  existed  in  him  reflected  vaguely  on  retracing  its 
steps.  He  believed  himself  to  be  far  away  from  Paris ;  on 
taking  his  bearings,  he  perceived  that  he  had  only  circled  the 
enclosure  of  the  University.  The  spire  of  Saint-Sulpice,  and 
the  three  lofty  needles  of  Saint  Germain-des-Pres,  rose  above 
the  horizon  on  his  right.  He  turned  his  steps  in  that  direc- 
tion. When  he  heard  the  brisk  challenge  of  the  men-at-arms 
of  the  abbey,  around  the  crenelated,  circumscribing  wall  of 
Saint-Germain,  he  turned  aside,  took  a  path  which  presented 
itself  between  the  abbey  and  the  lazar-house  of  the  bourg,  and 
at  the  expiration  of  a  few  minutes  found  himself  on  the 
verge  of  the  Pre-aux-Clercs.  This  meadow  was  celebrated  by 
reason  of  the  brawls  which  went  on  there  night  and  day ;  it 
was  the  hydra  of  the  poor  monks  of  Saint-Germain  :  quod 
monachis  Sancti-Germaini  pratensis  hydra  fait,  dericis  nova 
semper  dissidiorum  capita  suscitantibus.  The  archdeacon  was 
afraid  of  meeting  some  one  there ;  he  feared  every  human 
countenance  ;  he  had  just  avoided  the  University  and  the  Bourg 
Saint-Germain ;  he  wished  to  re-enter  the  streets  as  late  as 
possible.  He  skirted  the  Pre-aux-Clercs,  took  the  deserted  path 


140  NOTRE-DAXE. 

which  separated  it  from  the  Dieu-Neuf,  and  at  last  reached  the 
water's  edge.  There  Dom  Claude  found  a  boatman,  who,  for 
a  few  farthings  in  Parisian  coinage,  rowed  him  up  the  Seine  as 
far  as  the  point  of  the  city,  and  landed  him  on  that  tongue 
of  abandoned  land  where  the  reader  has  already  beheld  Grin- 
goire  dreaming,  and  which  was  prolonged  beyond  the  king's 
gardens,  parallel  to  the  He  du  Passeur-aux-Vaches. 

The  monotonous  rocking  of  the  boat  and  the  ripple  of  the 
water  had,  in  some  sort,  quieted  the  unhappy  Claude.  When 
the  boatman  had  taken  his  departure,  he  remained  standing 
stupidly  on  the  strand,  staring  straight  before  him  and  per- 
ceiving objects  only  through  magnifying  oscillations  which 
rendered  everything  a  sort  of  phantasmagoria  to  him.  The 
fatigue  of  a  great  grief  not  infrequently  produces  this  effect 
on  the  mind. 

The  sun  had  set  behind  the  lofty  Tour-de-Xesle.  It  was  the 
twilight  hour.  The  sky  was  white,  the  water  of  the  river  was 
white.  Between  these  two  white  expanses,  the  left  bank  of 
the  Seine,  on  which  his  eyes  were  fixed,  projected  its  gloomy 
mass  and,  rendered  ever  thinner  and  thinner  by  perspective,  it 
plunged  into  the  gloom,  of  the  horizon  like  a  black  spire.  It 
was  loaded  with  houses,  of  which  only  the  obscure  outline 
could  be  distinguished,  sharply  brought  out  in  shadows  against 
the  light  background  of  the  sky  and  the  water.  Here  and 
there  windows  began  to  gleam,  like  the  holes  in  a  brazier. 
That  immense  black  obelisk  thus  isolated  between  the  two 
white  expanses  of  the  sky  and  the  river,  which  was  very  broad 
at  this  point,  produced  upon  Dom  Claude  a  singular  effect, 
comparable  to  that  which  would  be  experienced  by  a  man 
who,  reclining  on  his  back  at  the  foot  of  the  tower  of  Stras- 
burg,  should  gaze  at  the  enormous  spire  plunging  into  the 
shadows  of  the  twilight  above  his  head.  Only,  in  this  case, 
it  was  Claude  who  was  erect  and  the  obelisk  which  was  lying 
down  ;  but,  as  the  river,  reflecting  the  sky,  prolonged  the  abyss 
below  him,  the  immense  promontory  seemed  to  be  as  boldly 
launched  into  space  as  any  cathedral  spire  ;  and  the  impression 
was  the  same.  This  impression  had  even  one  stronger  and 
more  profound  point  about  it,  that  it  was  indeed  the  tower 


DELIRIUM. 

of  Strasbourg,  but  the  tower  of  Strasbourg  two  leagues  in 
height;  something  unheard  of,  gigantic,  immeasurable;  an 
editice  such  as  no  human  eye  has  ever  seen ;  a  tower  of  Babel. 
The  chimneys  of  the  houses,  the  battlements  of  the  walls,  the 
faceted  gables  of  the  roofs,  the  spire  of  the  Augustines,  the 
tower  of  Nesle,  all  these  projections  which  broke  the  profile 
of  the  colossal  obelisk  added  to  the  illusion  by  displaying  in 
eccentric  fashion  to  the  eye  the  indentations  of  a  luxuriant 
and  fantastic  sculpture. 

Claude,  in  the  state  of  hallucination  in  which  he  found  him- 
self, believed  that  he  saw,  that  he  saw  with  his  actual  eyes, 
the  bell  tower  of  hell ;  the  thousand  lights  scattered  over  the 
whole  height  of  the  terrible  tower  seemed  to  him  so  many 
porches  of  the  immense  interior  furnace ;  the  voices  and 
noises  which  escaped  from  it  seemed  so  many  shrieks,  so 
many  death  groans.  Then  he  became  alarmed,  he  put  his 
hands  on  his  ears  that  he  might  no  longer  hear,  turned  his 
back  that  he  might  no  longer  see,  and  fled  from  the  frightful 
vision  with  hasty  strides. 

But  the  vision  was  in  himself. 

When  he  re-entered  the  streets,  the  passers-by  elbowing  each 
other  by  the  light  of  the  shop-fronts,  produced  upon  him  the 
effect  of  a  constant  going  and  coming  of  spectres  about  him. 
There  were  strange  noises  in  his  ears ;  extraordinary  fancies 
disturbed  his  brain.  He  saw  neither  houses,  nor  pavements, 
nor  chariots,  nor  men  and  women,  but  a  chaos  of  indeter- 
minate objects  whose  edges  melted  into  each  other.  At  the 
corner  of  the  Rue  de  la  Barillerie,  there  was  a  grocer's  shop 
whose  porch  was  garnished  all  about,  according  to  immemorial 
custom,  with  hoops  of  tin  from  which  hung  a  circle  of  wooden 
candles,  which  came  in  contact  with  each  other  in  the  wind, 
and  rattled  like  castanets.  He  thought  he  heard  a  cluster  of 
skeletons  at  Montfaucon  clashing  together  in  the  gloom. 

"  Oh  !  "  he  muttered,  "the  night  breeze  dashes  them  against 
each  other,  and  mingles  the  noise  of  their  chains  with  the 
rattle  of  their  bones  !  Perhaps  she  is  there  among  them  !  | 

In  his  state  of  frenzy,  he  knew  not  whither  he  was  going. 
After  a  few  strides  he"  found  himself  on  the  Font  Saint- 


142  NOTEE-DAME. 

Michel.  There  was  a  light  in  the  window  of  a  ground-floor 
room  ;  he  approached.  Through  a  cracked  window  he  beheld 
a  mean  chamber  which  recalled  some  confused  memory  to  his 
mind.  In  that  room,  badly  lighted  by  a  meagre  lamp,  there 
was  a  fresh,  light-haired  young  man,  with  a  merry  face,  who 
amid  loud  bursts  of  laughter  was  embracing  a  very  audaciously 
attired  young  girl ;  and  near  the  lamp  sat  an  old  crone  spin- 
ning and  singing  in  a  quavering  voice.  As  the  young  man  did 
not  laugh  constantly,  fragments  of  the  old  woman's  ditty 
reached  the  priest ;  it  was  something  unintelligible  yet  fright- 
ful, — 

"  Greve,  aboie,  Greve,  grouille! 
File,  file,  ma  quenouille, 
File  sa  corde  au  bourreau, 
Qui  siffle  dans  le  preau, 
Greve,  aboie,  Greve,  grouille! 

"La  belle  corde  de  chanvre! 
Semez  d'Issy  jusqu'a  Vanvre 
Du  chanvre  et  non  pas  du  ble. 
Le  voleiir  n'a  pas  vole 
La  belle  corde  de  chanvre. 

"Greve,  grouille,  Greve,  aboie! 
Pour  voir  la  fille  de  joie, 
Prendre  au  gibet  chassieux, 
Les  fenetres  sont  des  yeux. 
Greve,  grouille,  Greve,  aboie!"  * 

Thereupon  the  young  man  laughed  and  caressed  the  wench. 
The  crone  was  la  Falourdel;  the  girl  was  a  courtesan;  the 
young  man  was  his  brother  Jehan. 

He  continued  to  gaze.  That  spectacle  was  as  good  as  any 
other. 

He  saw  Jehan  go  to  a  window  at  the  end  of  the  room,  open 
it,  cast  a  glance  on  the  quay,  where  in  the  distance  blazed  a 

*  Bark,  Greve,  grumble,  Greve!  Spin,  spin,  my  distaff,  spin  her  rope 
for  the  hangman,  who  is  whistling  in  the  meadow.  What  a  beautiful 
hempen  rope!  Sow  hemp,  not  wheat,  from  Issy  to  Vanvre.  The  thief 
hath  not  stolen  the  beautiful  hempen  rope.  Grumble,  Greve,  bark, 
Greve!  To  see  the  dissolute  wench  hang  on  the  blear-eyed  gibbet,  win- 
dows are  eyes. 


DELIRIUM.  143 

thousand  lighted  casements,  and  he  heard  him  say  as  he 
closed  the  sash,  — 

"  Ton  my  soul !  How  dark  it  is ;  the  people  are  lighting 
their  candles,  and  the  good  God  his  stars." 

Then  Jehan  came  back  to  the  hag,  smashed  a  bottle  stand- 
ing on  the  table,  exclaiming,  — 

"  Already  empty,  cor-boeuf !  and  I  have  no  more  money ! 
Isabeau,  my  dear,  I  shall  not  be  satisfied  with  Jupiter  until 
he  has  changed  your  two  white  nipples  into  two  black  bottles, 
where  I  may  suck  wine  of  Beaune  day  and  night." 

This  fine  pleasantry  made  the  courtesan  laugh,  and  Jehan 
left  the  room. 

Dom  Claude  had  barely  time  to  fling  himself  on  the  ground 
in  order  that  he  might  not  be  met,  stared  in  the  face  and  rec- 
ognized by  his  brother.  Luckily,  the  street  was  dark,  and 
the  scholar  was  tipsy.  Nevertheless,  he  caught  sight  of  the 
archdeacon  prone  upon  the  earth  in  the  mud. 

"  Oh  !  oh  ! "  said  he ;  "  here's  a  fellow  who  has  been  leading 
a  jolly  life,  to-day." 

He  stirred  up  Dom  Claude  with  his  foot,  and  the  latter 
held  his  breath. 

"Dead  drunk,"  resumed  Jehan.  "Come,  he's  full.  A 
regular  leech  detached  from  a  hogshead.  He's  bald,"  he 
added,  bending  down,  "  'tis  an  old  man  !  Fortunate  senex  !  " 

Then  Dom  Claude  heard  him  retreat,  saying,  — 

" '  Tis  all  the  same,  reason  is  a  fine  thing,  and  my  brother 
the  archdeacon  is  very  happy  in  that  he  is  wise  and  has 
money." 

Then  the  archdeacon  rose  to  his  feet,  and  ran  without  halt- 
ing, towards  ISTotre-Dame,  whose  enormous  towers  he  beheld 
rising  above  the  houses  through  the  gloom. 

At  the  instant  when  he  arrived,  panting,  on  the  Place  du 
Parvis,  he  shrank  back  and  dared  not  raise  his  eyes  to  the 
fatal  edifice. 

"  Oh ! "  he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  « is  it  really  true  that  such 
a  thing  took  place  here,  to-day,  this  very  morning  ?  " 

Still,  he  ventured  to  glance  at  the  church.  The  front  was 
sombre ;  the  sky  behind  was  glittering  with  stars.  The  ores- 


144  NOTRE-DAME. 

cent  of  the  moon,  in  her  flight  upward  from  the  horizon, 
had  paused  at  the  moment,  on  the  summit  of  the  right  hand 
tower,  and  seemed  to  have  perched  itself,  like  a  luminous 
bird,  on  the  edge  of  the  balustrade,  cut  out  in  black  trefoils. 

The  cloister  door  was  shut ;  but  the  archdeacon  always 
carried  with  him  the  key  of  the  tower  in  which  his  laboratory 
was  situated.  He  made  use  of  it  to  enter  the  church. 

In  the  church  he  found  the  gloom  and  silence  of  a  cavern. 
By  the  deep  shadows  which  fell  in  broad  sheets  from  all 
directions,  he  recognized  the  fact  that  the  hangings  for  the 
ceremony  of  the  morning  had  not  yet  been  removed.  The 
great  silver  cross  shone  from  the  depths  of  the  gloom,  pow- 
dered with  some  sparkling  points,  like  the  milky  way  of  that 
sepulchral  night.  The  long  windows  of  the  choir  showed 
the  upper  extremities  of  their  arches  above  the  black  draper- 
ies, and  their  painted  panes,  traversed  by  a  ray  of  moonlight 
had  no  longer  any  hues  but  the  doubtful  colors  of  night,  a 
sort  of  violet,  white  and  blue,  whose  tint  is  found  only  on  the 
faces  of  the  dead.  The  archdeacon,  on  perceiving  these  wan 
spots  all  around  the  choir,  thought  he  beheld  the  mitres  of 
damned  bishops.  He  shut  his  eyes,  and  when  he  opened 
them  again,  he  thought  they  were  a  circle  of  pale  visages 
gazing  at  him. 

He  started  to  flee  across  the  church.  Then  it  seemed  to 
him  that  the  church  also  was  shaking,  moving,  becopiing 
endued  with  animation,  that  it  was  alive ;  that  each  of  the 
great  columns  was  turning  into  an  enormous  paw,  Avhich  was 
beating  the  earth  with  its  big  stone  spatula,  and  that  the 
gigantic  cathedral  was  no  longer  anything  but  a  sort  of  pro- 
digious elephant,  which  was  breathing  and  marching  with  its 
pillars  for  feet,  its  two  towers  for  trunks  and  the  immense 
black  cloth  for  its  housings. 

This  fever  or  madness  had  reached  such  a  degree  of  inten- 
sity that  the  external  world  was  no  longer  a7iything  more  for 
the  unhappy  man  than  a  sort  of  Apocalypse, —  visible,  pal  pa 
ble,  terrible. 

For  one  moment,  he  was  relieved.  As  he  plunged  into  th& 
side  aisles,  he  perceived  a  reddish  light  behind  a  cluster  of 


DELIRIUM.  145 

pillars.  He  ran  towards  it  as  to  a  star.  It  was  the  poor  lamp 
which  lighted  the  public  breviary  of  Notre-Dame  night  and 
clay,  beneath  its  iron  grating.  He  flung  himself  eagerly  upon 
the  holy  book  in  the  hope  of  finding  some  consolation,  or  some 
encouragement  there.  The  book  lay  open  at  this  passage  of 
Job,  over  which  his  staring  eye  glanced, — 

"  And  a  spirit  passed  before  my  face,  and  I  heard  a  small 
voice,  and  the  hair  of  my  flesh  stood  up." 

On  reading  these  gloomy  words,  he  felt  that  which  a  blind 
man  feels  when  he  feels  himself  pricked  by  the  staff  which  he 
has  picked  up.  His  knees  gave  way  beneath  him,  and  he  sank 
upon  the  pavement,  thinking  of  her  who  had  died  that  day. 
He  felt  so  many  monstrous  vapors  pass  and  discharge  them- 
selves in  his  brain,  that  it  seemed  to  him  that  his  head  had 
become  one  of  the  chimneys  of  hell. 

It  would  appear  that  he  remained  a  long  time  in  this  atti- 
tude, no  longer  thinking,  overwhelmed  and  passive  beneath 
the  hand  of  the  demon.  At  length  some  strength  returned  to 
him  ;  it  occurred  to  him  to  take  refuge  in  his  tower  beside 
his  faithful  Quasimodo.  He  rose ;  and,  as  he  was  afraid,  he 
took  the  lamp  from  the  breviary  to  light  his  way.  It  was 
a  sacrilege ;  but  he  had  got  beyond  heeding  such  a  trifle 
now. 

He  slowly  climbed  the  stairs  of  the  towers,  filled  with  a 
secret  fright  which  must  have  been  communicated  to  the  rare 
passers-by  in  the  Place  du  Parvis  by  the  mysterious  light  of 
his  lamp,  mounting  so  late  from  loophole  to  loophole  of  the 
bell  tower. 

All  at  once,  he  felt  a  freshness  on  his  face,  and  found  him- 
self at  the  door  of  the  highest  gallery.  The  air  was  cold ;  the 
sky  was  filled  with  hurrying  clouds,  whose  large,  white 
flakes  drifted  one  upon  another  like  the  breaking  up  of  river 
ice  after  the  winter.  The  crescent  of  the  moon,  stranded  in 
the  midst  of  the  clouds,  seemed  a  celestial  vessel  caught  in 
the  ice-cakes  of  the  air. 

He  lowered  his  gaze,  and  contemplated  for  a  moment, 
through  the  railing  of  slender  columns  which  unites  the  two 
towers,  far  away,  through  a  gauze  -of  mists  and  smoke,  the 


146  NOTRE-DAME. 

silent  throng  of  the  roofs  of  Paris,  pointed,  innumerable, 
crowded  and  small  like  the  waves  of  a  tranquil  sea  on  a  sum- 
mer night. 

The  moon  cast  a  feeble  ray,  which  imparted  to  earth  and 
heaven  an  ashy  hue. 

At  that  moment  the  clock  raised  its  shrill,  cracked  voice. 
Midnight  rang  out.  The  priest  thought  of  midday;  twelve 
o'clock  had  come  back  again. 

"  Oh ! "  he  said  in  a  very  low  tone,  "  she  must  be  cold  now. 

All  at  once,  a  gust  of  wind  extinguished  his  lamp,  and 
almost  at  the  same  instant,  he  beheld  a  shade,  a  whiteness,  a 
form,  a  woman,  appear  from  the  opposite  angle  of  the  tower. 
He  started.  Beside  this  woman  was  a  little  goat,  which  min- 
gled its  bleat  with  the  last  bleat  of  the  clock. 

He  had  strength  enough  to  look.     It  was  she. 

She  was  pale,  she  was  gloomy.  Her  hair  fell  over  her 
shoulders  as  in  the  morning ;  but  there  was  no  longer  a  rope 
on  her  neck,  her  hands  were  no  longer  bound ;  she  was  free, 
she  was  dead. 

She  was  dressed  in  white  and  had  a  white  veil  on  her 
head. 

She  came  towards  him,  slowly,  with  her  gaze  fixed  on  the 
sky.  The  supernatural  goat  followed  her.  He  felt  as  though 
made  of  stone  and  too  heavy  to  flee.  At  every  step  which 
she  took  in  advance,  he  took  one  backwards,  and  that  was  all. 
In  this  way  he  retreated  once  more  beneath  the  gloomy  arch 
of  the  stairway.  He  was  chilled  by  the  thought  that  she 
might  enter  there  also ;  had  she  done  so,  he  would  have  died 
of  terror. 

She  did  arrive,  in  fact,  in  front  of  the  door  to  the  stairway, 
and  paused  there  for  several  minutes,  stared  intently  into  the 
darkness,  but  without  appearing  to  see  the  priest,  and  passed 
on.  She  seemed  taller  to  him  than  when  she  had  been  alive  ; 
he  saw  the  moon  through  her  white  robe;  he  heard  her 
breath. 

When  she  had  passed  on,  he  began  to  descend  the  staircase 
again,  with  the  slowness  which  he  had  observed  in  the  spectre, 
believing  himself  to  be  a  spectre  too,  haggard,  with  hair  on 


DELIEIUM. 


147 


end,  his  extinguished  lamp  still  in  his  hand ;  and  as  he  de- 
scended the  spiral  steps,  he  distinctly  heard  in  his  ear  a  voice 
laughing  and  repeating,  — 

"  A  spirit  passed  before  my  face,  and  I  heard  a  small  voice, 
and  the  hair  of  my  flesh  stood  up." 


CHAPTER  II. 

HUNCHBACKED,    ONE   EYED,    LAME. 

EVERY  city  during  the  Middle  Ages,  and  every  city  in  France 
down  to  the  time  of  Louis  XII.  had  its  places  of  asylum. 
These  sanctuaries,  in  the  midst  of  the  deluge  of  penal  and  bar- 
barous jurisdictions  which  inundated  the  city,  were  a  species 
of  islands  which  rose  above  the  level  of  human  justice. 
Every  criminal  who  landed  there  was  safe.  There  were  in 
every  suburb  almost  as  many  places  of  asylum  as  gallows.  It 
was  the  abuse  of  impunity  by  the  side  of  the  abuse  of  punish- 
ment; two  bad  things  which  strove  to  correct'  each  other. 
The  palaces  of  the  king,  the  hotels  of  the  princes,  and  espe- 
cially churches,  possessed  the  right  of  asylum.  Sometimes  a 
whole  city  which  stood  in  need  of  being  repeopled  was  tem- 
porarily created  a  place  of  refuge.  Louis  XI.  made  all  Paris 
a  refuge  in  1467. 

His  foot  once  within  the  asylum,  the  criminal  was  sacred ; 
but  he  must  beware  of  leaving  it ;  one  step  outside  the  sanc- 
tuary, and  he  fell  back  into  the  flood.  The  wheel,  the  gibbet, 
the  strappado,  kept  good  guard  around  the  place  of  refuge,  and 
lay  in  watch  incessantly  for  their  prey,  like  sharks  around  a 
vessel.  Hence,  condemned  men  were  to  be  seen  whose  hair 
had  grown  white  in  a  cloister,  on  the  steps  of  a  palace,  in  the 
enclosure  of  an  abbey,  beneath  the  porch  of  a  church  ;  in  this 
manner  the  asylum  was  a  prison  as  much  as  any  other.  It 
sometimes  happened  that  a  solemn  decree  of  parliament 
violated  the  asylum  and  restored  the  condemned  man  to  the 
executioner;  but  this  was  of  rare  occurrence.  Parliaments 

148 


HUNCHBACKED,    ONE  EYED,   LAME.  149 

were  afraid  of  the  bishops,  and  when  there  was  friction 
between  these  two  robes,  the  gown  had  but  a  poor  chance 
against  the  cassock.  Sometimes,  however,  as  in  the  affair  of 
the  assassins  of  Petit-Jean,  the  headsman  of  Paris,  and  in 
that  of  Emery  Rousseau,  the  murderer  of  Jean  Valleret,  jus- 
tice overleaped  the  church  and  passed  on  to  the  execution  of 
its  sentences  ;  but  unless  by  virtue  of  a  decree  of  Parliament, 
woe  to  him  who  violated  a  place  of  asylum  with  armed  force  ! 
The  reader  knows  the  manner  of  death  of  Robert  de  Cler- 
mont,  Marshal  of  France,  and  of  Jean  de  Chalons,  Marshal  of 
Champagne  ;  and  yet  the  question  was  only  of  a  certain  Per- 
rin  Marc,  the  clerk  of  a  money-changer,  a  miserable  assassin  ; 
but  the  two  marshals  had  broken  the  doors  of  St.  Mery. 
Therein  lay  the  enormity. 

Such  respect  was  cherished  for  places  of  refuge  that,  accord- 
ing to  tradition,  animals  even  felt  it  at  times.  Aymoire 
relates  that  a  stag,  being  chased  by  Dagobert,  having  taken 
refuge  near  the  tomb  of  Saint-Denis,  the  pack  of  hounds 
stopped  short  and  barked. 

Churches  generally  had  a  small  apartment  prepared  for  the 
reception  of  supplicants.  In  1407,  Nicolas  Flamel  caused  to 
be  built  on  the  vaults  of  Saint-Jacques  de  la  Boucherie,  a 
chamber  which  cost  him  four  livres  six  sous,  sixteen  farthings, 
parisis. 

At  Notre-Dame  it  was  a  tiny  cell  situated  on  the  roof  of  the 
side  aisle,  beneath  the  flying  buttresses,  precisely  at  the  spot 
where  the  wife  of  the  present  janitor  of  the  towers  has  made 
for  herself  a  garden,  which  is  to  the  hanging  gardens  of  Baby- 
lon what  a  lettuce  is  to  a  palm-tree,  what  a  porter's  wife  is 
to  a  Semiramis. 

It  was  here  that  Quasimodo  had  deposited  la  Esmeralda, 
after  his  wild  and  triumphant  course.  As  long  as  that  course 
lasted,  the  young  girl  had  been  unable  to  recover  her  senses, 
half  unconscious,  half  awake,  no  longer  feeling  anything,  ex- 
cept that  she  was  mounting  through  the  air,  floating  in  it, 
flying  in  it,  that  something  was  raising  her  above  the  earth. 
From  time  to  time  she  heard  the  loud  laughter,  the  noisy  voice 
of  Quasimodo  in  her  ear;  she  half  opened  her  eyesj  then 


150  NOTRE-DAME. 

below  her  she  confusedly  beheld  Paris  checkered  with  its 
thousand  roofs  of  slate  and  tiles,  like  a  red  and  blue  mosaic, 
above  her  head  the  frightful  and  joyous  face  of  Quasimodo. 
Then  her  eyelids  drooped  again ;  she  thought  that  all  was 
over,  that  they  had  executed  her  during  her  swoon,  and  that 
the  misshapen  spirit  which  had  presided  over  her  destiny, 
had  laid  hold  of  her  and  was  bearing  her  away.  She  dared 
not  look  at  him,  and  she  surrendered  herself  to  her  fate. 

But  when  the  bellringer,  dishevelled  and  panting,  had  de- 
posited her  in  the  cell  of  refuge,  when  she  felt  his  huge  hands 
gently  detaching  the  cord  which  bruised  her  arms,  she  felt 
that  sort  of  shock  which  awakens  with  a  start  the  passen- 
gers of  a  vessel  which  runs  aground  in  the  middle  of  a  dark 
night.  Her  thoughts  awoke  also,  and  returned  to  her  one  by 
one.  She  saw  that  she  was  in  Notre-Dame ;  she  remembered 
having  been  torn  from  the  hands  of  the  executioner;  that 
Phoebus  was  alive,  that  Phoebus  loved  her  no  longer;  and 
as  these  two  ideas,  one  of  which  shed  so  much  bitterness  over 
the  other,  presented  themselves  simultaneously  to  the  poor 
condemned  girl ;  she  turned  to  Quasimodo,  who  was  standing 
in  front  of  her,  and  who  terrified  her ;  she  said  to  him,  — 

"  Why  have  you  saved  me  ?  " 

He  gazed  at  her  with  anxiety,  as  though  seeking  to  divine 
what  she  was  saying  to  him.  She  repeated  her  question. 
Then  he  gave  her  a  profoundly  sorrowful  glance  and  fled. 

She  was  astonished. 

A  few  moments  later  he  returned,  bearing  a  package  which 
he  cast  at  her  feet.  It  was  clothing  which  some  charitable 
women  had  left  on  the  threshold  of  the  church  for  her. 

Then  she  dropped  her  eyes  upon  herself  and  saw  that  she 
was  almost  naked,  and  blushed.  Life  had  returned. 

Quasimodo  appeared  to  experience  something  of  this  mod- 
esty. He  covered  his  eyes  with  his  large  hand  and  retired 
once  more,  but  slowly. 

She  made  haste  to  dress  herself.  The  robe  was  a  white 
one  with  a  white  veil,  —  the  garb  of  a  novice  of  the  Hotel- 
Dieu. 

She  had  barely  finished  when  she  beheld  Quasimodo  return- 


HUNCHBACKED,  ONE  EYED,  LAME. 

ing.  He  carried  a  basket  under  one  arm  and  a  mattress  under 
the  other.  In  the  basket  there  was  a  bottle,  bread,  and  some 
provisions.  He  set  the  basket  on  the  floor  and  said,  "  Eat ! " 
He  spread  the  mattress  on  the  flagging  and  said,  "  Sleep." 

It  was  his  own  repast,  it  was  his  own  bed,  which  the  bell- 
ringer  had  gone  in  search  of. 

The  gypsy  raised  her  eyes  to  thank  him,  but  she  could  not 
articulate  a  word.  She  dropped  her  head  with  a  quiver  of 
terror. 

Then  he  said  to  her,  — 

"  I  frighten  you.  I  am  very  ugly,  am  I  not  ?  Do  not  look 
at  me ;  only  listen  to  me.  During  the  day  you  will  remain 
here ;  at  night  you  can  walk  all  over  the  church.  But  do  not 
leave  the  church  either  by  day  or  by  night.  You  would  be 
lost.  They  would  kill  you,  and  I  should  die." 

She  was  touched  and  raised  her  head  to  answer  him.  He 
had  disappeared.  She  found  herself  alone  once  more,  medita- 
ting upon  the  singular  words  of  this  almost  monstrous  being, 
and  struck  by  the  sound  of  his  voice,  which  was  so  hoarse  yet 
so  gentle. 

Then  she  examined  her  cell.  It  was  a  chamber  about  six 
feet  square,  with  a  small  window  and  a  door  on  the  slightly 
sloping  plane  of  the  roof  formed  of  flat  stones.  Many  gutters 
with  the  figures  of  animals  seemed  to  be  bending  down  around 
her,  and  stretching  their  necks  in  order  to  stare  at  her  through 
the  window.  Over  the  edge  of  her  roof  she  perceived  the  tops 
of  thousands  of  chimneys  which  caused  the  smoke  of  all  the 
fires  in  Paris  to  rise  beneath  her  eyes.  A  sad  sight  for  the 
poor  gypsy,  a  foundling,  condemned  to  death,  an  unhappy 
creature,  without  country,  without  family,  without  a  hearth- 
stone. 

At  the  moment  when  the  thought  of  her  isolation  thus  ap- 
peared to  her  more  poignant  than  ever,  she  felt  a  bearded  and 
hairy  head  glide  between  her  hands,  upon  her  knees.  She 
started  (everything  alarmed  her  now)  and  looked.  It  was  the 
poor  goat,  the  agile  Djali,  which  had  made  its  escape  after 
her,  at  the  moment  when  Quasimodo  had  put  to  flight  Char- 
inolue's  brigade,  and  which  had  been  lavishing  caresses  on  her 


152 


NOT  RE-DAME. 


feet  for  nearly  an  hour  past,  without  being  able  to  win  a 
glance.  The  gypsy  covered  him  with  kisses. 

"Oh!  Djali ! "  she  said,  "how  I  have  forgotten  thee !  And 
so  thou  still  thinkest  of  me  !  Oh  !  thou  art  not  an  ingrate  !  " 

At  the  same  time,  as  though  an  invisible  hand  had  lifted 
the  weight  which  had  repressed  her  tears  in  her  heart  for  so 
long,  she  began  to  weep,  and,  in  proportion  as  her  tears  flowed, 
she  felt  all  that  was  most  acrid  and  bitter  in  her  grief  depart 
with  them. 

Evening  came,  she  thought  the  night  so  beautiful  that  she 
made  the  circuit  of  the  elevated  gallery  which  surrounds  the 
church.  It  afforded  her  some  relief,  so  calm  did  the  earth 
appear  when  viewed  from  that  height. 


CHAPTER   III. 


DEAF. 

ON  the  following  morning,  she  perceived  on  awaking,  that 
she  had  been  asleep.  This  singular  thing  astonished  her. 
She  had  been  so  long  unaccustomed  to  sleep !  A  joyous  ray 
of  the  rising  sun  entered  through  her  window  and  touched 
her  face.  At  the  same  time  with  the  sun,  she  beheld  at  that 
window  an  object  which  frightened  her,  the  unfortunate  face 
of  Quasimodo.  She  involuntarily  closed  her  eyes  again,  but 
in  vain ;  she  fancied  that  she  still  saw  through  the  rosy  lids 
that  gnome's  mask,  one-eyed  and  gap-toothed.  Then,  while 
she  still  kept  her  eyes  closed,  she  heard  a  rough  voice  saying, 
very  gently,  — 

"  Be  not  afraid.  I  am  your  friend.  I  came  to  watch  you 
sleep.  It  does  not  hurt  you  if  I  come  to  see  you  sleep,  does 
it  ?  What  difference  does  it  make  to  you  if  I  am  here  when 
your  eyes  are  closed !  Now  I  am  going.  Stay,  I  have  placed 
myself  behind  the  wall.  You  can  open  your  eyes  again." 

There  was  something  more  plaintive  than  these  words,  and 
that  was  the  accent  in  which  they  were  uttered.  The  gypsy, 
much  touched,  opened  her  eyes.  He  was,  in  fact,  no  longer 
at  the  window.  She  approached  the  opening,  and  beheld  the 
poor  hunchback  crouching  in  an  angle  of  the  wall,  in  a  sad 
and  resigned  attitude.  She  made  an  effort  to  surmount  the 
repugnance  with  which  he  inspired  her.  "Come,"  she  said 
to  him  gently.  From  the  movement  of  the  gypsy's  lips, 

153 


154  NOTRE-DAZfE. 

Quasimodo  thought  that  she  was  driving  him  away ;  then  he 
rose  and  retired  limping,  slowly,  with  drooping  head,  without 
even  daring  to  raise  to  the  young  girl  his  gaze  full  of  despair. 
"Do  come,"  she  cried,  but  he  continued  to  retreat.  Then 
she  darted  from  her  cell,  ran  to  him,  and  grasped  his  arm. 
On  feeling  her  touch  him,  Quasimodo  trembled  in  every  limb. 
He  raised  his  suppliant  eye,  and  seeing  that  she  was  leading 
him  back  to  her  quarters,  his  whole  face  beamed  with  joy  and 
tenderness.  She  tried  to  make  him  enter  the  cell ;  but  he 
persisted  in  remaining  on  the  threshold.  "  No,  no,"  said  he ; 
"the  owl  enters  not  the  nest  of  the  lark." 

Then  she  crouched  down  gracefully  on  her  couch,  with  her 
goat  asleep  at  her  feet.  Both  remained  motionless  for  several 
moments,  considering  in  silence,  she  so  much  grace,  he  so 
much  ugliness.  Every  moment  she  discovered  some  fresh 
deformity  in  Quasimodo.  Her  glance  travelled  from  his 
knock  knees  to  his  humped  back,  from  his  humped  back  to 
his  only  eye.  She  could  not  comprehend  the  existence  of  a 
being  so  awkwardly  fashioned.  Yet  there  was  so  much  sad- 
ness and  so  much  gentleness  spread  over  all  this,  that  she 
began  to  become  reconciled  to  it. 

He  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence.  "  So  you  were  tell- 
ing me  to  return  ?  " 

She  made  an  affirmative  sign  of  the  head,  and  said, 
"  Yes." 

He  understood  the  motion  of  the  head.  "  Alas  ! "  he  said, 
as  though  hesitating  whether  to  finish,  "  I  am  —  I  am  deaf." 

"  Poor  man ! "  exclaimed  the  Bohemian,  with  an  expression 
of  kindly  pity. 

He  began  to  smile  sadly. 

"  You  think  that  that  was  all  that  I  lacked,  do  you  not  ? 
Yes,  I  am  deaf,  that  is  the  way  I  am  made.  'Tis  horrible,  is 
it  not  ?  You  are  so  beautiful ! " 

There  lay  in  the  accents  of  the  wretched  man  so  profound  a 
consciousness  of  his  misery,  that  she  had  not  the  strength  to 
say  a  word.  Besides,  he  would  not  have  heard  her.  He 
went  on,  — 

"Never  have  I  seen  my  ugliness  as  at  the  present  moment. 


DEAF.  155 

When  I  compare  myself  to  you,  I  feel  a  very  great  pity  for 
myself,  poor  unhappy  monster  that  I  am !  Tell  me,  I  must 
look  to  you  like  a  beast.  You,  you  are  a  ray  of  sunshine,  a 
drop  of  dew,  the  song  of  a  bird !  I  am  something  frightful, 
neither  man  nor  animal,  I  know  not  what,  harder,  more 
trampled  under  foot,  and  more  unshapely  than  a  pebble 
stone ! " 

Then  he  began  to  laugh,  and  that  laugh  was  the  most  heart- 
breaking thing  in  the  world.  He  continued,  — 

"  Yes,  I  am  deaf ;  but  you  shall  talk  to  me  by  gestures,  by 
signs.  I  have  a  master  who  talks  with  me  in  that  way. 
And  then,  I  shall  very  soon  know  your  wish  from  the  move- 
ment of  your  lips,  from  your  look." 

"Well!"  she  interposed  with  a  smile,  "tell  me  why  you 
saved  me." 

He  watched  her  attentively  while  she  was  speaking. 

"  I  understand,"  he  replied.  "  You  ask  me  why  I  saved 
you.  You  have  forgotten  a  wretch  who  tried  to  abduct  you 
one  night,  a  wretch  to  whom  you  rendered  succor  on  the  fol- 
loAving  day  on  their  infamous  pillory.  A  drop  of  water  and  a 
little  pity,  —  that  is  more  than  I  can  repay  with  my  life. 
You  have  forgotten  that  wretch ;  but  he  remembers  it." 

She  listened  to  him  with  profound  tenderness.  A  tear 
swam  in  the  eye  of  the  bellringer,  but  did  not  fall.  He 
seemed  to  make  it  a  sort  of  point  of  honor  to  retain  it. 

"  Listen,"  he  resumed,  when  he  was  no  longer  afraid  that 
the  tear  would  escape  ;  "  our  toAvers  here  are  very  high,  a 
man  who  should  fall  from  them  would  be  dead  before  touch- 
ing the  pavement;  when  it  shall  please  you  to  have  me 
fall,  you  will  not  have  to  utter  even  a  word,  a  glance  will 
suffice." 

Then  he  rose.  Unhappy  as  was  the  Bohemian,  this  eccen- 
tric being  still  aroused  some  compassion  in  her.  She  made 
him  a  sign  to  remain. 

"No,  no,"  said  he ;  "I  must  not  remain  too  long.  I  am  not 
at  my  ease.  It  is  out  of  pity  that  you  do  not  turn  away  your 
eyes.  I  shall  go  to  some  place  where  I  can  see  you  without 
your  seeing  me :  it  will  be  better  so," 


156 


NOTKE-DAME. 


He  drew  from  his  pocket  a  little  metal  whistle. 

"Here,"  said  he,  "when  you  have  need  of  me,  when  you 
wish  me  to  come,  when  you  will  not  feel  too  much  horror  at 
the  sight  of  me,  use  this  whistle.  I  can  hear  this  sound." 

He  laid  the  whistle  on  the  floor  and  fled. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

EARTHENWARE    AND    CRYSTAL. 

DAY  followed  day.  Calm  gradually  returned  to  the  soul  of 
La  Esmeralda.  Excess  of  grief,  like  excess  of  joy  is  a  violent 
thing  which  lasts  but  a  short  time.  The  heart  of  man  cannot 
remain  long  in  one  extremity.  The  gypsy  had  suffered  so 
much,  that  nothing  was  left  her  but  astonishment.  With 
security,  hope  had  returned  to  her.  She  was  outside  the  pale 
of  society,  outside  the  pale  of  life,  but  she  had  a  vague  feeling 
that  it  might  not  be  impossible  to  return  to  it.  She  Avas  like 
a  dead  person,  who  should  hold  in  reserve  the  key  to  her  tomb. 

She  felt  the  terrible  images  which  had  so  long  persecuted 
her,  gradually  departing.  All  the  hideous  phantoms,  Pierrat 
Torterue,  Jacques  Charmolue,  were  effaced  from  her  mind, 
all,  even  the  priest. 

And  then,  Phoebus  was  alive ;  she  was  sure  of  it,  she  had 
seen  him.  To  her  the  fact  of  Phoebus  being  alive  was  every- 
thing. After  the  series  of  fatal  shocks  which  had  overturned 
everything  within  her,  she  had  found  but  one  thing  intact  in 
her  soul,  one  sentiment,  —  her  love  for  the  captain.  Love  is 
like  a  tree  ;  it  sprouts  forth  of  itself,  sends  its  roots  out  deeply 
through  our  whole  being,  and  often  continues  to  flourish 
greenly  over  a  heart  in  ruins. 

And  the  inexplicable  point  about  it  is  that  the  more  blind 
is  this  passion,  the  more  tenacious  it  is.  It  is  never  more 
solid  than  when  it  has  no  reason  in  it. 

La  Esmeralda  did  not  flunk  of  the  captain  without  bitter- 

157 


158  NOTRE-DAME. 

ness,  no  doubt.  No  doubt  it  was  terrible  that  he  also  should 
have  been  deceived;  that  he  should  have  believed  that  im- 
possible thing,  that  he  could  have  conceived  of  a  stab  dealt 
by  her  who  would  have  given  a  thousand  lives  for  him.  But, 
after  all,  she  must  not  be  too  angry  with  him  for  it ;  had  she 
not  confessed  her  crime  ?  had  she  not  yielded,  weak  woman 
that  she  was,  to  torture  ?  The  fault  was  entirely  hers.  She 
should  have  allowed  her  finger  nails  to  be  torn  out  rather 
than  such  a  word  to  be  wrenched  from  her.  In  short,  if  she 
could  but  see  Phoebus  once  more,  for  a  single  minute,  only 
one  word  would  be  required,  one  look,  in  order  to  undeceive 
him,  to  bring  him  back.  She  did  not  doubt  it.  She  was 
astonished  also  at  many  singular  things,  at  the  accident  of 
Phoebus's  presence  on  the  day  of  the  penance,  at  the  young 
girl  with  whom  he  had  been.  She  was  his  sister,  no  doubt. 
An  unreasonable  explanation,  but  she  contented  herself  with 
it,  because  she  needed  to  believe  that  Phoebus  still  loved 
her,  and  loved  her  alone.  Had  he  not  sworn  it  to  her  ?  What 
more  was  needed,  simple  and  credulous  as  she  was  ?  And 
then,  in  this  matter,  were  not  appearances  much  more  against 
her  than  against  him  ?  Accordingly,  she  waited.  She  hoped. 
Let  us  add  that  the  church,  that  vast  church,  which  sur- 
rounded her  on  every  side,  which  guarded  her,  which  saved 
her,  was  itself  a  sovereign  tranquillizer.  The  solemn  lines 
of  that  architecture,  the  religious  attitude  of  all  the  objects 
which  surrounded  the  young  girl,  the  serene  and  pious 
thoughts  which  emanated,  so  to  speak,  from  all  the  pores  of 
that  stone,  acted  upon  her  without  her  being  aware  of  it.  The 
edifice  had  also  sounds  fraught  with  such  benediction  and 
such  majesty,  that  they  soothed  this  ailing  soul.  The  monot- 
onous chanting  of  the  celebrants,  the  responses  of  the  people 
to  the  priest,  sometimes  inarticulate,  sometimes  thunderous, 
the  harmonious  trembling  of  the  painted  windows,  the  organ, 
bursting  forth  like  a  hundred  trumpets,  the  three  belfries, 
humming  like  hives  of  huge  bees,  that  whole  orchestra  on 
which  bounded  a  gigantic  scale,  ascending,  descending  inces- 
santly from  the  voice  of  a  throng  to  that  of  one  bell,  dulled 
her  memory,  her  imagination,  her  grief.  The  bells,  in  partic- 


EARTHENWARE  AND   CRYSTAL.  159 

ular,  lulled  her.  It  was  something  like  a  powerful  magnetism 
which  those  vast  instruments  shed  over  her  in  great  waves. 

Thus  every  sunrise  found  her  more  calm,  breathing  better, 
less  pale.  In  proportion  as  her  inward  wounds  closed,  her 
grace  and  beauty  blossomed  once  more  on  her  countenance, 
but  more  thoughtful,  more  reposeful.  Her  former  character 
also  returned  to  her,  somewhat  even  of  her  gayety,  her  pretty 
pout,  her  love  for  her  goat,  her  love  for  singing,  her  modesty. 
She  took  care  to  dress  herself  in  the  morning  in  the  corner  of 
her  cell  for  fear  some  inhabitants  of  the  neighboring  attics 
might  see  her  through  the  window. 

When  the  thought  of  Phoebus  left  her  time,  the  gypsy  some- 
times thought  of  Quasimodo.  He  was  the  sole  bond,  the  sole 
connection,  the  sole  communication  which  remained  to  her 
with  men,  with  the  living.  Unfortunate  girl !  she  was  more 
outside  the  world  than  Quasimodo.  She  understood  not 
in  the  least  the  strange  friend  whom  chance  had  given  her. 
She  often  reproached  herself  for  not  feeling  a  gratitude  which 
should  close  her  eyes,  but  decidedly,  she  could  not  accustom 
herself  to  the  poor  bellringer.  He  was  too  ugly. 

She  had  left  the  whistle  which  he  had  given  her  lying  on 
the  ground.  This  did  not  prevent  Quasimodo  from  making  his 
appearance  from  time  to  time  during  the  first  few  days.  She 
did  her  best  not  to  turn  aside  with  too  much  repugnance  when 
he  came  to  bring  her  her  basket  of  provisions  or  her  jug  of 
water,  but  he  always  perceived  the  slightest  movement  of 
this  sort,  and  then  he  withdrew  sadly. 

Once  he  came  at  the  moment  when  she  was  caressing 
Djali.  He  stood  pensively  for  several  minutes  before  this 
graceful  group  of  the  goat  and  the  gypsy;  at  last  he  said, 
shaking  his  heavy  and  ill-formed  head,  — 

"  My  misfortune  is  that  I  still  resemble  a  man  too  much.  I 
should  like  to  be  wholly  a  beast  like  that  goat." 

She  gazed  at  him  in  amazement. 

He  replied  to  the  glance, — 

"  Oh  !  I  well  know  why,"  and  he  went  away. 

On  another  occasion  he  presented  himself  at  the  door  of  the 
cell  (which  he  never  entered)  at  the  moment  when  la  Esmer- 


160          •  NOTEE-DAME. 

alda  was  singing  an  old  Spanish  ballad,  the  Avords  of  which 
she  did  not  understand,  but  which  had  lingered  in  her  ear 
because  the  gypsy  women  had  lulled  her  to  sleep  with  it 
when  she  was  a  little  child.  At  the  sight  of  that  villanous 
form  which  made  its  appearance  so  abruptly  in  the  middle  of 
her  song,  the  young  girl  paused  with  an  involuntary  gesture 
of  alarm.  The  unhappy  belli-inger  fell  upon  his  knees  on  the 
threshold,  and  clasped  his  large,  misshapen  hands  with  a  sup- 
pliant air.  "  Oh ! "  he  said,  sorrowfully,  "  continue,  I  implore 
you,  and  do  not  drive  me  away."  She  did  not  wish  to  pain 
him,  and  resumed  her  lay,  trembling  all  over.  By  degrees, 
however,  her  terror  disappeared,  and  she  yielded  herself 
wholly  to  the  slow  and  melancholy  air  which  she  was  singing. 
He  remained  on  his  knees  with  hands  clasped,  as  in  prayer, 
attentive,  hardly  breathing,  his  gaze  riveted  upon  the  gypsy's 
brilliant  eyes. 

On  another  occasion,  he  came  to  her  with  an  awkward  and 
timid  air.  "  Listen,"  he  said,  with  an  effort ;  "  I  have  some- 
thing to  say  to  you."  She  made  him  a  sign  that  she  was  list- 
ening. Then  he  began  to  sigh,  half  opened  his  lips,  appeared 
for  a  moment  to  be  on  the  point  of  speaking,  then  he  looked 
at  her  again,  shook  his  head,  and  withdrew  slowly,  with  his 
brow  in  his  hand,  leaving  the  gypsy  stupefied. 

Among  the  grotesque  personages  sculptured  on  the  wall, 
there  was  one  to  whom  he  was  particularly  attached,  and  with 
which  he  often  seemed  to  exchange  fraternal  glances.  Once 
the  gypsy  heard  him  saying  to  it, — 

"  Oh  !  why  am  not  I  of  stone,  like  you ! " 

At  last,  one  morning,  la  Esmeralda  had  advanced  to  the 
edge  of  the  roof,  and  was  looking  into  the  Place  over  the 
pointed  roof  of  Saint-Jean  le  Rond.  Quasimodo  was  stand- 
ing behind  her.  He  had  placed  himself  in  that  position  in 
order  to  spare  the  young  girl,  as  far  as  possible,  the  displeas- 
ure of  seeing  him.  All  at  once  the  gypsy  started,  a  tear 
and  a  flash  of  joy  gleamed  simultaneously  in  her  eyes,  she 
knelt  on  the  brink  of  the  roof  and  extended  her  arms  towards 
the  Place  with  anguish,  exclaiming :  "  Phoebus  !  come  !  come  ! 
a  word,  a  single  word  in  the  name  of  heaven !  Phrebus ! 


EARTHENWARE  AND   CRYSTAL.  161 

Phoebus  !  "  Her  voice,  her  face,  her  gesture,  her  whole  person 
bore  the  heartrending  expression  of  a  shipwrecked  man  who 
is  making  a  signal  of  distress  to  the  joyous  vessel  which  is 
passing  afar  off  in  a  ray  of  sunlight  on  the  horizon. 

Quasimodo  leaned  over  the  Place,  and  saw  that  the  object 
of  this  tender  and  agonizing  prayer  was  a  young  man,  a  cap- 
tain, a  handsome  cavalier  all  glittering  with  arms  and  decora- 
tions, prancing  across  the  end  of  the  Place,  and  saluting  with 
his  plume  a  beautiful  lady  who  was  smiling  at  him  from  her 
balcony.  However,  the  officer  did  not  hear  the  unhappy  girl 
calling  him ;  he  was  too  far  away. 

But  the  poor  deaf  man  heard.  A  profound  sigh  heaved  his 
breast ;  he  turned  round ;  his  heart  was  swollen  with  all  the 
tears  which  he  was  swallowing ;  his  convulsively-clenched  fists 
struck  against  his  head,  and  when  he  withdrew  them  there 
was  a  bunch  of  red  hair  in  each  hand. 

The  gypsy  paid  no  heed  to  him.  He  said  in  a  low  voice  as 
he  gnashed  his  teeth, — 

"  Damnation  !  That  is  what  one  should  be  like  !  'Tis  only 
necessary  to  be  handsome  on  the  outside  ! " 

Meanwhile,  she  remained  kneeling,  and  cried  with  extraor- 
dinary agitation, — 

"  Oh  !  there  he  is  alighting  from  his  horse  !  He  is  about  to 
enter  that  house  !  —  Phoebus  !  —  He  does  not  hear  me  !  Phoe- 
bus !  —  How  wicked  that  woman  is  to  speak  to  him  at  the 
same  time  with  me  !  Phoebus  !  Phoebus ! " 

The  deaf  man  gazed  at  her.  He  understood  this  pantomime. 
The  poor  bellringer's  eye  filled  with  tears,  but  he  let  none 
fall.  All  at  once  he  pulled  her  gently  by  the  border  of  her 
sleeve.  She  turned  round.  He  had  assumed  a  tranquil  air ; 
he  said  to  her,  — 

"  Would  you  like  to  have  me  bring  him  to  you  ?  " 

She  uttered  a  cry  of  joy. 

« Oh  !  go  !  hasten  !  run  !  quick !  that  captain  !  that  cap- 
tain !  bring  him  to  me  !  I  will  love  you  for  it ! " 

She  clasped  his  knees.  He  could  not  refrain  from  shaking 
his  head  sadly. 

"I  will  bring  him  to  you,"  he  said,  in  a  weak  voice. 


162  NOTKE-DAME. 

he  turned  his  head  and  plunged  down  the  staircase  with  great 
strides,  stifling  with  sobs. 

When  he  reached  the  Place,  he  no  longer  saw  anything  ex- 
cept the  handsome  horse  hitched  at  the  door  of  the  Gonde- 
laurier  house ;  the  captain  had  just  entered  there. 

He  raised  his  eyes  to  the  roof  of  the  church.  La  Esmeralda 
was  there  in  the  same  spot,  in  the  same  attitude.  He  made 
her  a  sad  sign  with  his  head ;  then  he  planted  his  back  against 
one  of  the  stone  posts  of  the  Gondelaurier  porch,  determined 
to  wait  until  the  captain  should  come  forth. 

In  the  Gondelaurier  house  it  was  one  of  those  gala  days 
which  precede  a  wedding.  Quasimodo  beheld  many  people 
enter,  but  no  one  come  out.  He  cast  a  glance  towards  the 
roof  from  time  to  time ;  the  gypsy  did  not  stir  any  more  than 
himself.  A  groom  came  and  unhitched  the  horse  and  led  it  to 
the  stable  of  the  house. 

The  entire  day  passed  thus,  Quasimodo  at  his  post,  la 
Esmeralda  on  the  roof,  Phoebus,  no  doubt,  at  the  feet  of 
Fleur-de-Lys. 

At  length  night  came,  a  moonless  night,  a  dark  night. 
Quasimodo  fixed  his  gaze  in  vain  upon  la  Esmeralda;  soon 
she  was  no  more  than  a  whiteness  amid  the  twilight ;  then 
nothing.  All  was  effaced,  all  was  black. 

Quasimodo  beheld  the  front  windows  from  top  to  bottom  of 
the  Gondelaurier  mansion  illuminated;  he  saw  the  other 
casements  in  the  Place  lighted  one  by  one,  he  also  saw  them 
extinguished  to  the  very  last,  for  he  remained  the  whole  even- 
ing at  his  post.  The  officer  did  not  come  forth.  When  the 
last  passers-by  had  returned  home,  when  the  windows  of  all 
the  other  houses  were  extinguished,  Quasimodo  was  left  en- 
tirely alone,  entirely  in  the  dark.  There  were  at  that  time 
no  lamps  in  the  square  before  Notre-Dame. 

Meanwhile,  the  windows  of  the  Gondelaurier  mansion  re- 
mained lighted,  even  after  midnight.  Quasimodo,  motionless 
and  attentive,  beheld  a  throng  of  lively,  dancing  shadows 
pass  athwart  the  many-colored  painted  panes.  Had  he  not 
been  deaf,  he  would  have  heard  more  and  more  distinctly, 
in  proportion  as  the  noise  of  sleeping  Paris  died  away,  a 


EARTHENWARE  AND  CRYSTAL.  163 

sound  of  feasting,  laughter,  and  music  in   the  Gondelaurier 
mansion. 

Towards  one  o'clock  in  the  morning,  the  guests  began  to 
take  their  leave.  Quasimodo,  shrouded  in  darkness  watched 
them  all  pass  out  through  the  porch  illuminated  with  torches. 
None  of  them  was  the  captain. 

He  was  filled  with  sad  thoughts  ;  at  times' he  looked  upwards 
into  the  air,  like  a  person  who  is  weary  of  waiting.  Great 
black  clouds,  heavy,  torn,  split,  hung  like  crape  hammocks 
beneath  the  starry  dome  of  night.  One  would  have  pro- 
nounced them  spiders'  webs  of  the  vault  of  heaven. 

In  one  of  these  moments  he  suddenly  beheld  the  long  win- 
dow on  the  balcony,  whose  stone  balustrade  projected  above 
his  head,  open  mysteriously.  The  frail  glass  door  gave  pas- 
sage to  two  persons,  and  closed  noiselessly  behind  them ;  it 
was  a  man  and  a  woman. 

It  was  not  without  difficulty  that  Quasimodo  succeeded  in 
recognizing  in  the  man  the  handsome  captain,  in  the  woman 
the  young  lady  whom  he  had  seen  welcome  the  officer  in  the 
morning  from  that  very  balcony.  The  place  was  perfectly 
dark,  and  a  double  crimson  curtain  which  had  fallen  across 
the  door  the  very  moment  it  closed  again,  allowed  no  light  to 
reach  the  balcony  from  the  apartment. 

The  young  man  and  the  young  girl,  so  far  as  our  deaf  man 
could  judge,  without  hearing  a  single  one  of  their  words,  ap- 
peared to  abandon  themselves  to  a  very  tender  tete-a-tete. 
The  young  girl  seemed  to  have  allowed  the  officer  to  make  a 
girdle  for  her  of  his  arm,  and  gently  repulsed  a  kiss. 

Quasimodo  looked  on  from  below  at  this  scene  which  was 
all  the  more  pleasing  to  witness  because  it  was  not  meant  to  be 
seen.     He   contemplated   with   bitterness   that  beauty,   that 
happiness.     After  all,  nature  was  not  dumb  in  the  poor  fel- 
low, and  his  human  sensibility,  all  maliciously  contorted  as  it 
was,  quivered  no  less  than  any  other.     He  thought  of  the 
miserable  portion  which  Providence  had  allotted  to  him  ;  that 
woman  and  the  pleasure  of  love,  would  pass  forever  before 
eyes,  and  that  he  should  never  do  anything  but  behold 
felicity  of  others.     But  that  which  rent  his  heart  most  in  tJ 


164  NOTRE-DAME. 

sight,  that  which  mingled  indignation  with  his  anger,  was  the 
thought  of  what  the  gypsy  would  suffer  could  she  behold  it. 
It  is  true  that  the  night  was  very  dark,  that  la  Esnieralda,  if 
she  had  remained  at  her  post  (and  he  had  no  doubt  of  this), 
was  very  far  away,  and  that  it  was  all  that  he  himself  could 
do  to  distinguish  the  lovers  on  the  balcony.  This  consoled 
him. 

Meanwhile,  their  conversation  grew  more  and  more  ani- 
mated. The  young  lady  appeared  to  be  entreating  the  officer 
to  ask  nothing  more  of  her.  Of  all  this  Quasimodo  could  dis- 
tinguish only  the  beautiful  clasped  hands,  the  smiles  mingled 
with  tears,  the  young  girl's  glances  directed  to  the  stars,  the 
eyes  of  the  captain  lowered  ardently  upon  her. 

Fortunately,  for  the  young  girl  was  beginning  to  resist  but 
feebly,  the  door  of  the  balcony  suddenly  opened  once  more 
and  an  old  dame  appeared ;  the  beauty  seemed  confused,  the 
officer  assumed  an  air  of  displeasure,  and  all  three  withdrew. 

A  moment  later,  a  horse  was  champing  his  bit  under  the 
porch,  and  the  brilliant  officer,  enveloped  in  his  night  cloak, 
passed  rapidly  before  Quasimodo. 

The  bellringer  allowed  him  to  turn  the  corner  of  the  street, 
then  he  ran  after  him  with  his  ape-like  agility,  shouting : 
"  Hey  there  !  captain !  " 

The  captain  halted. 

"What  wants  this  knave  with  me  ?  "  he  said,  catching  sight 
through  the  gloom  of  that  hipshot  form  which  ran  limping 
after  him. 

Meanwhile,  Quasimodo  had  caught  up  with  him,  and  had 
boldly  grasped  his  horse's  bridle  :  "  Follow  me,  captain ;  there 
is  one  here  who  desires  to  speak  with  you ! 

"  Cornemahom !  "  grumbled  Phoebus,  "  here's  a  villanous, 
ruffled  bird  which  I  fancy  I  have  seen  somewhere.  Hola ! 
master,  will  you  let  my  horse's  bridle  alone  ?  " 

"  Captain,"  replied  the  deaf  man,  "  do  you  not  ask  me  who 
it  is  ?  " 

"I  tell  you  to  release  my  horse,"  retorted  Phoebus,  impa- 
tiently. "What  means  the  knave  by  clinging  to  the  bridle 
of  my  steed  ?  Do  you  take  my  horse  for  a  gallows  ?  " 


EARTHENWARE  AND   CRYSTAL.  1(55 

Quasimodo,  far  from  releasing  the  bridle,  prepared  to  force 
mm  to  retrace  his  steps.  Unable  to  comprehend  the  captain's 
resistance,  he  hastened  to  say  to  him,  — 

"  Come,  captain,  'tis  a  woman  who  is  waiting  for  you."  He 
added  with  an  effort :  "  A  woman  who  loves  you." 

"  A  rare  rascal !  "  said  the  captain,  "  who  thinks  me  obliged 
to  go  to  all  the  women  who  love  me !  or  who  say  they  do. 
And  what  if,  by  chance,  she  should  resemble  you,  you  face  of 
a  screech-owl  ?  Tell  the  woman  who  has  sent  you  that  I  am 
about  to  marry,  and  that  she  may  go  to  the  devil ! " 

"  Listen,"  exclaimed  Quasimodo,  thinking  to  overcome  his 
hesitation  with  a  word,  "  come,  monseigneur !  'tis  the  gypsy 
whom  you  know  ! " 

This  word  did,  indeed,  produce  a  great  effect  on  Phoebus, 
but  not  of  the  kind  which  the  deaf  man  expected.  It  will  be 
remembered  that  our  gallant  officer  had  retired  with  Fleur-de- 
Lys  several  moments  before  Quasimodo  had  rescued  the  con- 
demned girl  from  the  hands  of  Charmolue.  Afterwards,  in 
all  his  visits  to  the  Gondelaurier  mansion  he  had  taken  care 
not  to  mention  that  woman,  the  memory  of  whom  was,  after 
all,  painful  to  him;  and  on  her  side,  Fleur-de-Lys  had  not 
deemed  it  politic  to  tell  him  that  the  gypsy  was  alive. 
Hence  Phoebus  believed  poor  "  Similar  "  to  be  dead,  and  that 
a  month  or  two  had  elapsed  since  her  death.  Let  us  add  that 
for  the  last  few  moments  the  captain  had  been  reflecting  on 
the  profound  darkness  of  the  night,  the  supernatural  ugliness, 
the  sepulchral  voice  of  the  strange  messenger  ;  that  it  was  past 
midnight ;  that  the  street  was  deserted,  as  on  the  evening  when 
the  surly  monk  had  accosted  him ;  and  that  his  horse  snorted 
as  it  looked  at  Quasimodo. 

"  The  gypsy  !  "  he  exclaimed,  almost  frightened.  "  Look 
here,  do  you  come  from  the  other  world  ?  " 

And  he  laid  his  hand  on  the  hilt  of  his  dagger. 

"  Quick,  quick,"  said  the  deaf  man,  endeavoring  to  drag  the 
horse  along  ;  "  this  way  ! " 

Phoebus  dealt  him  a  vigorous  kick  in  the  breast. 

Quasimodo's  eye  flashed.  He  made  a  motion  to  fling  himself 
on  the  captain.  Then  he  drew  himself  up  stiffly  and  said,  — 


166  NOTEE-DAME. 

"  Oh !  how  happy  you  are  to  have  some  one  who  loves 
you ! " 

He  emphasized  the  words  "some  one,"  and  loosing  the 
horse's  bridle, — 

" Begone ! " 

Phoebus  spurred  on  in  all  haste,  swearing.  Quasimodo 
watched  him  disappear  in  the  shades  of  the  street. 

"  Oh !  "  said  the  poor  deaf  man,  in  a  very  low  voice  ;  "  to 
refuse  that ! " 

He  re-entered  Nbtre-Dame,  lighted  his  lamp  and  climbed  to 
the  tower  again.  The  gypsy  was  still  in  the  same  place,  as 
he  had  supposed. 

She  flew  to  meet  him  as  far  off  as  she  could  see  him. 

"  Alone ! "  she  cried,  clasping  her  beautiful  hands  sorrow- 
fully. 

"  I  could  not  find  him,"  said  Quasimodo  coldly. 

"  You  should  have  waited  all  night,"  she  said  angrily. 

He  saw  her  gesture  of  wrath,  and  understood  the  reproach. 

"  I  will  lie  in  wait  for  him  better  another  time,"  he  said, 
dropping  his  head. 

"  Begone ! "  she  said  to  him. 

He  left  her.  She  was  displeased  with  him.  He  preferred 
to  have  her  abuse  him  rather  than  to  have  afflicted  her.  He 
had  kept  all  the  pain  to  himself. 

From  that  day  forth,  the  gypsy  no  longer  saw  him.  He 
ceased  to  come  to  her  cell.  At  the  most  she  occasionally 
caught  a  glimpse  at  the  summit  of  the  towers,  of  the  bell- 
ringer's  face  turned  sadly  to  her.  But  as  soon  as  she  per- 
ceived him,  he  disappeared. 

We  must  admit  that  she  was  not  much  grieved  by  this  vol- 
untary absence  on  the  part  of  the  poor  hunchback.  At  the 
bottom  of  her  heart  she  was  grateful  to  him  for  it.  More- 
over, Quasimodo  did  not  deceive  himself  on  this  point. 

She  no  longer  saw  him,  but  she  felt  the  presence  of  a  good 
genius  about  her.  Her  provisions  were  replenished  by  an 
invisible  hand  during  her  slumbers.  One  morning  she  found 
a  cage  of  birds  on  her  window.  There  was  a  piece  of  sculp- 
ture above  her  window  which  frightened  her.  She  had 


EARTHENWARE  ANT)   CRYSTAL. 

shown  this  more  than  once  in  Quasimodo's  presence.  One 
morning,  for  all  these  things  happened  at  night,  she  no  longer 
saw  it,  it  had  been  broken.  The  person  who  had  climbed  up 
to  that  carving  must  have  risked  his  life. 

Sometimes,  in  the  evening,  she  heard  a  voice,  concealed 
beneath  the  wind  screen  of  the  bell  tower,  singing  a  sad, 
strange  song,  as  though  to  lull  her  to  sleep.  The  lines  were 
unrhymed,  such  as  a  deaf  person  can  make. 

Ne  regarde  pas  la  figure, 

Jeune  fille,  regarde  le  coeur. 

Le  coeur  d'un  beau  jeune  homme  est  souvent  difforme. 
II  y  a  des  coeurs  ou  1'  amour  ne  se  conserve  pas. 

Jeune  fille,  le  sapin  n'est  pas  beau, 
N'est  pas  beau  comme  le  peuplier, 
Mais  il  garde  son  feuillage  1'hiver. 

Helas !  a  quoi  bon  dire  cela? 
Ce  qui  n'est  pas  beau  a  tort  d'etre; 
La  beaute  n'aime  que  la  beaute", 
Avril  tourne  le  dos  a  Janvier. 

La  beaute  est  parfaite, 
La  beaute  peut  tout, 
La  beaute  est  la  seule  chose  qui  n'existe  pas  a  demi. 

Le  corbeau  ne  vole  que  le  jour, 
Le  hibou  ne  vole  que  la  nuit, 
Le  cygne  vole  la  nuit  et  le  jour.* 

One  morning,  on  awaking,  she  saw  on  her  window  two 
vases  filled  with  flowers.  One  was  a  very  beautiful  and  very 
brilliant  but  cracked  vase  of  glass.  It  had  allowed  the  water 
with  which  it  had  been  filled  to  escape,  and  the  flowers  which 

*  Look  not  at  the  face,  young  girl,  look  at  the  heart.  The  heart  of  a 
handsome  young  man  is  often  deformed.  There  are  hearts  in  which  love 
does  not  keep.  Young  girl,  the  pine  is  not  beautiful;  it  is  not  beautiful 
like  the  poplar,  but  it  keeps  its  foliage  in  winter.  Alas!  What  is  th« 
use  of  saying  that  ?  That  which  is  not  beautiful  has  no  right  to  exist 
beauty  loves  only  beauty;  April  turns  her  back  on  January.  Beauty  is 
perfect,  beauty  can  do  all  things,  beauty  is  the  only  thing  which  does  not 
exist  by  halves.  The  raven  flies  only  by  day,  the  owl  flies  only  by  night, 
the  swan  flies  by  day  and  by  night. 


168 


NOTRE-DAME. 


it  contained  were  withered.  The  other  was  an  earthenware 
pot,  coarse  and  common,  but  whicli  had  preserved  all  its 
water,  and  its  flowers  remained  fresh  and  crimson. 

J.  know  not  whether  it  was  done  intentionally,  but  La 
Esmeralda  took  the  faded  nosegay  and  wore  it  all  day  long 
upon  her  breast. 

That  day  she  did  not  hear  the  voice  singing  in  the  tower. 

She  troubled  herself  very  little  about  it.  She  passed  her 
days  in  caressing  Djali,  in  watching  the  door  of  the  Gonde- 
laurier  house,  in  talking  to  herself  about  Phrebus,  and  in 
crumbling  up  her  bread  for  the  swallows. 

She  had  entirely  ceased  to  see  or  hear  Quasimodo.  The 
poor  bellringer  seemed  to  have  disappeared  from  the  church. 
One  night,  nevertheless,  when  she  was  not  asleep,  but  was 
thinking  of  her  handsome  captain,  she  heard  something 
breathing  near  her  cell.  She  rose  in  alarm,  and  saw  by  the 
light  of  the  moon,  a  shapeless  mass  lying  across  her  door  on 
the  outside.  It  was  Quasimodo  asleep  there  upon  the  stones. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE    KEY   TO    THE   RED    DOOR. 

IN  the  meantime,  public  rumor  had  informed  the  arch- 
deacon of  the  miraculous  manner  in  which  the  gypsy  had  been 
saved.  When  he  learned  it,  he  knew  not  what  his  sensations 
were.  He  had  reconciled  himself  to  la  Esmeralda's  death. 
In  that  matter  he  was  tranquil ;  he  had  reached  the  bottom  of 
personal  suffering.  The  human  heart  (Dom  Claude  had  medi- 
tated upon  these  matters)  can  contain  only  a  certain  quantity 
of  despair.  When  the  sponge  is  saturated,  the  sea  may  pass 
over  it  without  causing  a  single  drop  more  to  enter  it. 

Now,  with  la  Esmeralda  dead,  the  sponge  was  soaked,  all 
was  at  an  end  on  this  earth  for  Dom  Claude.  But  to  feel 
that  she  was  alive,  and  Phoebus  also,  meant  that  tortures, 
shocks,  alternatives,  life,  were  beginning  again.  And  Claude 
was  weary  of  all  this. 

When  he  heard  this  news,  he  shut  himself  in  his  cell  in  the 
cloister.  He  appeared  neither  at  the  meetings  of  the  chapter 
nor  at  the  services.  He  closed  his  door  against  all,  even 
against  the  bishop.  He  remained  thus  immured  for  several 
weeks.  He  was  believed  to  be  ill.  And  so  he  was,  in  fact. 

What  did  he  do  while  thus  shut  up  ?  With  what  thoughts 
was  the  unfortunate  man  contending?  Was  he  giving  final 
battle  to  his  formidable  passion  ?  Was  he  concocting  a  final 
plan  of  death  for  her  and  of  perdition  for  himself  ? 

His  Jehan,  his  cherished  brother,  his  spoiled  child,  came 
once  to  his  door,  knocked,  swore,  entreated,  gave  his  name 
half  a  score  of  times.  Claude  did  not  open. 

169 


170  NOTRE-DAME. 

He  passed  Avhole  days  with  his  face  close  to  the  panes  of 
his  window.  From  that  window,  situated  in  the  cloister,  he 
could  see  la  Esmeralda's  chamber.  He  often  saw  herself 
with  her  goat,  sometimes  with  Quasimodo.  He  remarked  the 
little  attentions  of  the  ugly  deaf  man,  his  obedience,  his  deli- 
cate and  submissive  ways  with  the  gypsy.  He  recalled,  for 
he  had  a  good  memory,  and  memory  is  the  tormentor  of  the 
jealous,  he  recalled  the  singular  look  of  the  bellriuger,  bent 
on  the  dancer  upon  a  certain  .evening.  He  asked  himself 
what  motive  could  have  impelled  Quasimodo  to  save  her. 
He  was  the  witness  of  a  thousand  little  scenes  between  the 
gypsy  and  the  deaf  man,  the  pantomime  of  which,  viewed 
from  afar  and  commented  on  by  his  passion,  appeared  very 
tender  to  him.  He  distrusted  the  capriciousness  of  women. 
Then  he  felt  a  jealousy  which  he  could  never  have  believed 
possible  awakening  within  him,  a  jealousy  which  made  him 
redden  with  shame  and  indignation :  "  One  might  condone  the 
captain,  but  this  one  !  "  This  thought  upset  him. 

His  nights  were  frightful.  As  soon  as  he  learned  that  the 
gypsy  was  alive,  the  cold  ideas  of  spectre  and  tomb  which 
had  persecuted  him  for  a  whole  day  vanished,  and  the  flesh 
returned  to  goad  him.  He  turned  and  twisted  on  his  couch 
at  the  thought  that  the  dark-skinned  maiden  was  so  near 
him. 

Every  night  his  delirious  imagination  represented  la  Esmer- 
alda  to  him  in  all  the  attitudes  which  had  caused  his  blood  to 
boil  most.  He  beheld  her  outstretched  upon  the  poniarded 
captain,  her  eyes  closed,  her  beautiful  bare  throat  covered 
with  Phoebus's  blood,  at  that  moment  of  bliss  when  the  arch- 
deacon had  imprinted  on  her  pale  lips  that  kiss  whose  burn  the 
unhappy  girl,  though  half  dead,  had  felt.  He  beheld  her 
again,  stripped  by  the  savage  hands  of  the  torturers,  allowing 
them  to  bare  and  to  enclose  in  the  boot  with  its  iron  screw,  her 
tiny  foot,  her  delicate  rounded  leg,  her  white  and  supple  knee. 
Again  he  beheld  that  ivory  knee  which  alone  remained  out- 
side of  Torterue's  horrible  apparatus.  Lastly,  he  pictured  the 
young  girl  in  her  shift,  with  the  rope  about  her  neck,  shoul- 
ders bare,  feet  bare,  almost  nude,  as  he  had  seen  her  on  that 


THE  KEY  .TO   THE  RED  DOOR. 


171 


last  day.  These  images  of  voluptuousness  made  him  clench 
his  fists,  and  a  shiver  run  along  his  spine. 

One  night,  among  others,  they  heated  so  cruelly  his  virgin 
and  priestly  blood,  that  he  bit  his  pillow,  leaped  from  his 
bed,  flung  on  a  surplice  over  his  shirt,  and  left  his  cell,  lamp 
in  hand,  half  naked,  wild,  his  eyes  aflame. 

He  knew  where  to  find  the  key  to  the  red  door,  which  con- 
nected the  cloister  with  the  church,  and  he  always  Jiad  about 
him,  as  the  reader  knows,  the  key  of  the  staircase  leading  to 
the  towers. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

CONTINUATION  OF  THE  KEY  TO  THE  RED  BOOK. 

THAT  night,  la  Esmeralda  had  fallen  asleep  in  her  cell,  full 
of  oblivion,  of  hope,  and  of  sweet  thoughts.  She  had  already 
been  asleep  for  some  time,  dreaming  as  always,  of  Phoebus, 
when  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  heard  a  noise  near  her.  She 
slept  lightly  and  uneasily,  the  sleep  of  a  bird ;  a  mere  nothing 
waked  her.  She  opened  her  eyes.  The  night  was  very  dark. 
Nevertheless,  she  saw  a  figure  gazing  at  her  through  the  win- 
dow ;  a  lamp  lighted  up  this  apparition.  The  moment  that 
the  figure  saw  that  la  Esmeralda  had  perceived  it,  it  blew  out 
the  lamp.  But  the  young  girl  had  had  time  to  catch  a  glimpse 
of  it ;  her  eyes  closed  again  with  terror. 

"  Oh !  "  she  said  in  a  faint  voice,  "  the  priest !  " 

All  her  past  unhappiness  came  back  to  her  like  a  flash  of 
lightning.  She  fell  back  on  her  bed,  chilled. 

A  moment  later  she  felt  a  touch  along  her  body  which  made 
her  shudder  so  that  she  straightened  herself  up  in  a  sitting 
posture,  wide  awake  and  furious. 

The  priest  had  just  slipped  in  beside  her.  He  encircled 
her  with  both  arms. 

She  tried  to  scream  and  could  not. 

"  Begone,  monster  !  begone  assassin  ! "  she  said,  in  a  voice 
which  was  low  and  trembling  with  wrath  and  terror. 

"  Mercy  !  mercy  !  "  murmured  the  priest,  pressing  his  lips 
to  her  shoulder. 

172 


CONTINUATION  OF  THE  KEY  TO  THE  RED  DOOR.     173 

She  seized  his  bald  head  by  its  remnant  of  hair  and  tried  to 
thrust  aside  his  kisses  as  though  they  had  been  bites. 

"Mercy!"  repeated  the  unfortunate  man.  "If  you  but 
knew  what  my  love  for  you  is !  'Tis  fire,  melted  lead,  a  thou- 
sand daggers  in  my  heart." 

She  stopped  his  two  arms  with  superhuman  force. 

"  Let  me  go,"  she  said,  "  or  I  will  spit  in  your  face ! " 

He  released  her.  "  Vilify  me,  strike  me,  be  malicious !  Do 
what  you  will !  But  have  mercy  !  love  me ! " 

Then  she  struck  him  with  the  fury  of  a  child.  She  made 
her  beautiful  hands  stiff  to  bruise  his  face.  "  Begone,  demon ! " 

"  Love  me !  love  me !  pity !  "  cried  the  poor  priest  return- 
ing her  blows  with  caresses. 

All  at  once  she  felt  him  stronger  than  herself. 

"  There  must  be  an  end  to  this ! "  he  said,  gnashing  his 
teeth. 

She  was  conquered,  palpitating  in  his  arms,  and  in  his 
power.  She  felt  a  wanton  hand  straying  over  her.  She  made 
a  last  effort,  and  began  to  cry :  "  Help !  Help !  A  vampire ! 
a  vampire ! " 

Nothing  came.  Djali  alone  was  awake  and  bleating  with 
anguish. 

"  Hush ! "  said  the  panting  priest. 

All  at  once,  as  she  struggled  and  crawled  on  the  floor,  the 
gypsy's  hand  came  in  contact  with  something  cold  and  metal- 
lic—  it  was  Quasimodo's  whistle.  She  seized  it  with  a  convul- 
sive hope,  raised  it  to  her  lips  and  blew  with  all  the  strength 
that  she  had  left.  The  whistle  gave  a  clear,  piercing  sound. 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  said  the  priest. 

Almost  at  the  same  instant  he  felt  himself  raised  by  a 
vigorous  arm.  The  cell  was  dark;  he  could  not  distinguish 
clearly  who  it  was  that  held  him  thus;  but  he  heard  teeth 
chattering  with  rage,  and  there  was  just  sufficient  light  scat- 
tered among  the  gloom  to  allow  him  to  see  above  his  head  the 
blade  of  a  large  knife. 

The  priest  fancied  that  he  perceived  the  form  of  Quasimodo. 
He  assumed  that  it  could  be  no  one  but  he.  He  remembered 
to  have  stumbled,  as  he  entered,  over  a  bundle  which  was 


174  NOTRE-DAME. 

stretched  across  the  door  on  the  outside.  But,  as  the  new- 
coiner  did  not  utter  a  word,  he  knew  not  what  to  think.  He 
flung  himself  on  the  arm  which  held  the  knife,  crying :  "  Quasi- 
modo ! "  He  forgot,  at  that  moment  of  distress,  that  Quasi- 
modo was  deaf. 

In  a  twinkling,  the  priest  was  overthrown  and  a  leaden 
knee  rested  on  his  breast. 

From  the  angular  imprint  of  that  knee  he  recognized  Quasi- 
modo ;  but  what  was  to  be  done  ?  how  could  he  make  the 
other  recognize  him?  the  darkness  rendered  the  deaf  man 
blind. 

He  was  lost.  The  young  girl,  pitiless  as  an  enraged  tigress, 
did  not  intervene  to  save  him.  The  knife  was  approaching 
his  head;  the  moment  was  critical.  All  at  once,  his  adver- 
sary seemed  stricken  with  hesitation. 

"  No  blood  on  her  !  "  he  said  in  a  dull  voice. 

It  was,  in  fact,  Quasimodo's  voice. 

Then  the  priest  felt  a  large  hand  dragging  him  feet  first  out 
of  the  cell ;  it  was  there  that  he  was  to  die.  Fortunately  for 
him,  the  moon  had  risen  a  few  moments  before. 

When  they  had  passed  through  the  door  of  the  cell,  its  pale 
rays  fell  upon  the  priest's  countenance.  Quasimodo  looked 
him  full  in  the  face,  a  trembling  seized  him,  and  he  released 
the  priest  and  shrank  back. 

The  gyps}',  who  had  advanced  to  the  threshold  of  her  cell, 
beheld  with  s\irprise  their  roles  abruptly  changed.  It  was 
now  the  priest  who  menaced,  Quasimodo  who  was  the  sup- 
pliant. 

The  priest,  who  was  overwhelming  the  deaf  man  with  ges- 
tures of  wrath  and  reproach,  made  the  latter  a  violent  sign  to 
retire. 

The  deaf  man  dropped  his  head,  then  he  came  and  knelt  at 
the  gypsy's  door,  — "  Monseigneur,"  he  said,  in  a  grave  and 
resigned  voice,  "you  shall  do  all  that  you  please  afterwards, 
but  kill  me  first." 

So  saying,  he  presented  his  knife  to  the  priest.  The  priest, 
beside  himself,  was  about  to  seize  it.  But  the  young  girl  was 
quicker  than  he;  she  wrenched  the  knife  from  Quasimodo's 


CONTINUATION  OF  THE  KEY  TO  THE  RED  DOOR.     175 

hands  and  burst  into  a  frantic  laugh,  —  "Approach,"  she  said 
to  the  priest. 

She  held  the  blade  high.  The  priest  remained  undecided. 
She  would  certainly  have  struck  him. 

Then  she  added  with  a  pitiless  expression,  well  aware  that 
she  was  about  to  pierce  the  priest's  heart  with  thousands  of 
red-hot  irons,  — 

"Ah  !     I  know  that  Phoebus  is  not  dead ! 

The  priest  overturned  Quasimodo  on  the  floor  with  a  kick, 
and,  quivering  with  rage,  darted  back  under  the  vault  of  the 
staircase. 

When  he  was  gone,  Quasimodo  picked  up  the  whistle  which 
had  just  saved  the  gypsy. 

"  It  was  getting  rusty,"  he  said,  as  he  handed  it  back  to  her ; 
then  he  left  her  alone. 

The  young  girl,  deeply  agitated  by  this  violent  scene,  fell 
back  exhausted  on  her  bed,  and  began  to  sob  and  weep.  Her 
horizon  was  becoming  gloomy  once  more. 

The  priest  had  groped  his  way  back  to  his  cell. 

It  was  settled.     Dom  Claude  was  jealous  of  Quasimodo  ! 

He  repeated  with  a  thoughtful  air  his  fatal  words:  "No 
one  shall  have  her." 


BOOK  TENTH. 


CHAPTER  I. 

GRINGOIRE    HAS    MANY    GOOD    IDEAS    IN    SUCCESSION. RUE 

DBS    BERNARDINS. 

As  soon  as  Pierre  Gringoire  had  seen  how  this  whole  affair 
was  turning,  and  that  there  would  decidedly  be  the  rope, 
hanging,  and  other  disagreeable  things  for  the  principal  per- 
sonages in  this  comedy,  he  had  not  cared  to  identify  himself 
with  the  matter  further.  The  outcasts  with  whom  he  had 
remained,  reflecting  that,  after  all,  it  was  the  best  company  in 
Paris,  —  the  outcasts  had  continued  to  interest  themselves  in 
behalf  of  the  gypsy.  He  had  thought  it  very  simple  on  the 
part  of  people  who  had,  like  herself,  nothing  else  in  prospect 
but  Charmolue  and  Torterue,  and  who,  unlike  himself,  did  not 
gallop  through  the  regions  of  imagination  between  the  wings 
of  Pegasus.  From  their  remarks,  he  had  learned  that  his  wife 
of  the  broken  crock  had  taken  refuge  in  Notre-Dame,  and  he 
was  very  glad  of  it.  But  he  felt  no  temptation  to  go  and  see 
her  there.  He  meditated  occasionally  on  the  little  goat,  and 
that  was  all.  Moreover,  he  was  busy  executing  feats  of  strength 
during  the  day  for  his  living,  and  at  night  he  was  engaged 
in  composing  a  memorial  against  the  Bishop  of  Paris,  for  he 
remembered  having  been  drenched  by  the  wheels  of  his  mills, 
and  he  cherished  a  grudge  against  him  for  it.  He  also  occu- 

177 


178  NOTBE-DAME. 

pied  himself  with  annotating  the  fine  work  of  Baudry-le- 
Rouge,  Bishop  of  Noyon  and  Tournay,  De  Cupa  Petrarnm. 
which  had  given  him  a  violent  passion  for  architecture,  an 
inclination  which  had  replaced  in  his  heart  his  passion  for 
hermeticism,  of  which  it  was,  moreover,  only  a  natural  corol- 
lary, since  there  is  an  intimate  relation  between  hermeticism 
and  masonry.  Gringoire  had  passed  from  the  love  of  an  idea 
to  the  love  of  the  form  of  that  idea. 

One  day  he  had  halted  near  Saint  Germain-l'Auxerrois,  at 
the  corner  of  a  mansion  called  "  For-1'Eveque  "  (the  Bishop's 
Tribunal),  which  stood  opposite  another  called  "  For-le-Roi " 
(the  King's  Tribunal).  At  this  For-1'Eveque,  there  was  a 
charming  chapel  of  the  fourteenth  century,  whose  apse  was  on 
the  street.  Gringoire  was  devoutly  examining  its  exterior 
sculptures.  He  was  in  one  of  those  moments  of  egotistical, 
exclusive,  supreme,  enjoyment  when  the  artist  beholds  noth- 
ing in  the  world  but  art,  and  the  world  in  art.  All  at  once  he 
feels  a  hand  laid  gravely  on  his  shoulder.  He  turns  round. 
It  was  his  old  friend,  his  former  master,  monsieur  the  arch- 
deacon. 

He  was  stupefied.  It  was  a  long  time  since  he  had  seen  the 
archdeacon,  and  Dom  Claude  was  one  of  those  solemn  and  im- 
passioned men,  a  meeting  with  whom  always  upsets  the  equi- 
librium of  a  sceptical  philosopher. 

The  archdeacon  maintained  silence  for  several  minutes,  dur- 
ing which  Gringoire  had  time  to  observe  him.  He  found  Dom 
Claude  greatly  changed ;  pale  as  a  winter's  morning,  with  hollow 
eyes,  and  hair  almost  white.  The  priest  broke  the  silence  at 
length,  by  saying,  in  a  tranquil  but  glacial  tone,  — 

"  How  do  you  do,  Master  Pierre  ?  " 

"  My  health  ?  "  replied  Gringoire.  "  Eh !  eh !  one  can  say 
both  one  thing  and  another  on  that  score.  Still,  it  is  good,  on 
the  whole.  I  take  not  too  much  of  anything.  You  know, 
master,  that  the  secret  of  keeping  well,  according  to  Hippo- 
crates ;  id  est :  cibi,  potus,  somni,  venus,  omnia  moderata  sint." 

"  So  you  have  no  care,  Master  Pierre  ?  "  resumed  the  arch- 
deacon, gazing  intently  at  Gringoire. 

"  None,  i'  faith !  " 


GRINGOIRE  HAS  MANY  GOOD  IDEAS.  179 

"  And  what  are  you  doing  now  ?  " 

"  You  see,  master.  I  am  examining  the  chiselling  of  these 
stones,  and  the  manner  in  which  yonder  bas-relief  is  thrown 
out." 

The  priest  began  to  smile  with  that  bitter  smile  which  raises 
only  one  corner  of  the  mouth. 

"  And  that  amuses  you  ?  " 

"  'Tis  paradise  !  "  exclaimed  Gringoire.  And  leaning  over 
the  sculptures  with  the  fascinated  air  of  a  demonstrator  of 
living  phenomena :  "  Do  you  not  think,  for  instance,  that  yon 
metamorphosis  in  bas-relief  is  executed  with  much  adroitness, 
delicacy  and  patience  ?  Observe  that  slender  column.  Around 
what  capital  have  you  seen  foliage  more  tender  and  better 
caressed  by  the  chisel.  Here  are  three  raised  bosses  of  Jean 
Maillevin.  They  are  not  the  finest  works  of  this  great  master. 
Nevertheless,  the  naivete,  the  sweetness  of  the  faces,  the  gay- 
ety  of  the  attitudes  and  draperies,  and  that  inexplicable  charm 
which  is  mingled  with  all  the  defects,  render  the  little  figures 
very  diverting  and  delicate,  perchance,  even  too  much  so.  You 
think  that  it  is  not  diverting  ?  " 

"  Yes,  certainly  ! "  said  the  priest. 

"  And  if  you  were  to  see  the  interior  of  the  chapel ! "  re- 
sumed the  poet,  with  his  garrulous  enthusiasm.  "Carvings 
everywhere.  'Tis  as  thickly  clustered  as  the  head  of  a  cab- 
bage !  The  apse  is  of  a  very  devout,  and  so  peculiar  a  fashion 
that  I  have  never  beheld  anything  like  it  elsewhere  I" 

Dom  Claude  interrupted  him, — 

"  You  are  happy,  then  ?' ' 

Gringoire  replied  warmly, — 

"  On  my  honor,  yes  !  First  I  loved  women,  then  animals. 
Now  I  love  stones.  They  are  quite  as  amusing  as  women  and 
animals,  and  less  treacherous." 

The  priest  laid  his  hand  on  his  brow  It  was  his  habitual 
gesture. 

"Keally?" 

"  Stay  ! "  said  Gringoire,  "  one  has  one's  pleasures  ! 
took  the  arm  of  the  priest,  who  let  him  have  his  way,  and 
made  him  enter  the  staircase  turret  of  For-1'Eveque.     "  Here 


180  NOTRE-DAME. 

is  a  staircase  !  every  time  that  I  see  it  I  am  happy.  It  is  of 
the  simplest  and  rarest  manner  of  steps  in  Paris.  All  the 
steps  are  bevelled  underneath.  Its  beauty  and  simplicity  con- 
sist in  the  interspacing  of  both,  being  a  foot  or  more  wide, 
which  are  interlaced,  interlocked,  fitted  together,  enchained 
enchased,  interlined  one  upon  another,  and  bite  into  each 
other  in  a  manner  that  is  truly  firm  and  graceful." 

"  And  you  desire  nothing  ?  " 

"No." 

"  And  you  regret  nothing  ?  " 

"Neither  regret  nor  desire.  I  have  arranged  my  mode  of 
life." 

"What  men  arrange,"  said  Claude,  "things  disarrange." 

"  I  am  a  Pyrrhonian  philosopher,"  replied  Gringoire,  "  and  I 
hold  all  things  in  equilibrium." 

"  And  how  do  you  earn  your  living  ?  " 

"  I  still  make  epics  and  tragedies  now  and  then ;  but  that 
which  brings  me  in  most  is  the  industry  with  which  you  are 
acquainted,  master  ;  carrying  pyramids  of  chairs  in  my  teeth." 

"  The  trade  is  but  a  rough  one  for  a  philosopher." 

"'Tis  still  equilibrium,"  said  Gringoire.  "When  one  has 
an  idea,  one  encounters  it  in  everything." 

"  I  know  that,"  replied  the  archdeacon. 

After  a  silence,  the  priest  resumed,  — 

"  You  are,  nevertheless,  tolerably  poor  ?  " 

"  Poor,  yes  ;  unhappy,  no." 

At  that  moment,  a  trampling  of  horses  was  heard,  and  our 
two  interlocutors  beheld  defiling  at  the  end  of  the  street,  a 
company  of  the  king's  unattached  archers,  their  lances  borne 
high,  an  officer  at  their  head.  The  cavalcade  was  brilliant, 
and  its  march  resounded  on  the  pavement. 

"  How  you  gaze  at  that  officer ! "  said  Gringoire,  to  the 
archdeacon. 

"  Because  I  think  I  recognize  him." 

"  What  do  you  call  him  ?  " 

"I  think,"  said  Claude,  "that  his  name  is  Phoebus  de 
Chateaupers." 

"  Phoebus  !     A  curious   name  !     There  is   also   a   Phoebus, 


GRIXGOIltE  HAS  MANY  GOOD  IDEAS. 

Conite   de  Foix.     I   remember  having  kiiown  a  wench  who 
swore  only  by  the  name  of  Phoebus." 

"  Come  away  from  here,"  said  the  priest.  "  I  have  some- 
thing to  say  to  you." 

From  the  moment  of  that  troop's  passing,  some  agitation 
had  pierced  through  the  archdeacon's  glacial  envelope.  He 
walked  on.  Gringoire  followed  him,  being  accustomed  to 
obey  him,  like  all  who  had  once  approached  that  man  so  full 
of  ascendency.  They  reached  in  silence  the  Kue  des  Bernard- 
ins,  which  was  nearly  deserted.  Here  Dom  Claude  paused. 

"  What  have  you  to  say  to  me,  master  ?  "  Gringoire  asked 
him. 

"  Do  you  not  think  that  the  dress  of  those  cavaliers  whom 
we  have  just  seen  is  far  handsomer  than  yours  and  mine  ?  " 

Gringoire  tossed  his  head. 

"  I'  faith  !  I  love  better  my  red  and  yellow  jerkin,  than 
those  scales  of  iron  and  steel.  A  fine  pleasure  to  produce, 
when  you  walk,  the  same  noise  as  the  Quay  of  Old  Iron,  in  an 
earthquake  ! " 

"  So,  Gringoire,  you  have  never  cherished  envy  for  those 
handsome  fellows  in  their  military  doublets  ?  " 

"  Envy  for  what,  monsieur  the  archdeacon  ?  their  strength, 
their  armor,  their  discipline  ?  Better  philosophy  and  inde- 
pendence in  rags.  I  prefer  to  be  the  head  of  a  fly  rather  than 
the  tail  of  a  lion." 

"  That  is  singular,"  said  the  priest  dreamily.  "  Yet  a  hand- 
some uniform  is  a  beautiful  thing." 

Gringoire,  perceiving  that  he  was  in  a  pensive  mood,  quitted 
him  to  go  and  admire  the  porch  of  a  neighboring  house.  He 
came  back  clapping  his  hands. 

"  If  you  were  less  engrossed  with  the  fine  clothes  of  men  of 
war,  monsieur  the  archdeacon,  I  would  entreat  you  to  come 
and  see  this  door.  I  have  always  said  that  the  house  of  the 
Sieur  Aubry  had  the  most  superb  entrance  in  the  world." 

"  Pierre  Gringoire,"  said  the  archdeacon,  "  What  have  you 
done  with  that  little  gypsy  dancer  ?  " 

"La  Esmeralda?  You  change  the  conversation  very  ab- 
ruptly." 


182  NOTRE-DAME. 

"  Was  she  not  your  wife  ?  " 

"  Yes,  by  virtue  of  a  broken  crock.  We  were  to  have  four 
years  of  it.  By  the  way,"  added  Gringoire,  looking  at  the 
archdeacon  in  a  half  bantering  way,  "  are  you  still  thinking  of 
her  ?  " 

"  And  you  think  of  her  no  longer  ?  " 

"  Very  little.  I  have  so  many  things.  Good  heavens,  how 
pretty  that  little  goat  was  !  " 

"  Had  she  not  saved  your  life  ?  " 

"  'Tis  true,  pardieu ! " 

"  Well,  what  has  become  of  her  ?  What  have  you  done 
with  her  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  tell  you.     I  believe  that  they  have  hanged  her." 

"  You  believe  so  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  sure.  When  I  saw  that  they  wanted  to  hang 
people,  I  retired  from  the  game." 

"  That  is  all  you  know  of  it  ?  " 

"Wait  a  bit.  I  was  told  that  she  had  taken  refuge  in 
Notre-Dame,  and  that  she  was  safe  there,  and  I  am  delighted 
to  hear  it,  and  I  have  not  been  able  to  discover  whether  the 
goat  was  saved  with  her,  and  that  is  all  I  know." 

"  I  will  tell  you  more,"  cried  Dom  Claude ;  and  his  voice, 
hitherto  low,  slow,  and  almost  indistinct,  turned  to  thunder. 
"  She  has  in  fact,  taken  refuge  in  Xotre-Dame.  But  in  three 
days  justice  will  reclaim  her,  and  she  will  be  hanged  on  the 
Greve.  There  is  a  decree  of  parliament." 

"That's  annoying,"  said  Gringoire. 

The  priest,  in  an  instant,  became  cold  and  calm  again. 

"  And  who  the  devil,"  resumed  the  poet,  "  has  amused  him- 
self with  soliciting  a  decree  of  reintegration  ?  Why  couldn't 
they  leave  parliament  in  peace  ?  What  harm  does  it  do  if  a 
poor  girl  takes  shelter  under  the  flying  buttresses  of  Xotre- 
Dame,  beside  the  swallows'  nests  ?  " 

"  There  are  satans  in  this  world,"  remarked  the  archdeacon. 

"  'Tis  devilish  badly  done,"  observed  Gringoire. 

The  archdeacon  resumed  after  a  silence,  — 

"  So,  she  saved  your  life  ?  " 

"  Among  my  good  friends  the  outcasts.     A  little  more  or  a 


GEINGOIRE  HAS  MANY  GOOD  IDEAS.  183 

little  less  and  I  should  have  been  hanged.     They  would  have 
been  sorry  for  it  to-day." 

"  Would  not  you  like  to  do  something  for  her  ?  " 

"  I  ask  nothing  better,  Dona  Claude ;  but  what  if  I  entangle 
myself  in  some  villanous  affair  ?  " 

••  What  matters  it  ?  " 

"  Bah !  what  matters  it  ?  You  are  good,  master,  that  you 
arc  !  I  have  two  great  works  already  begun." 

The  priest  smote  his  brow.  In  spite  of  the  calm  which  he 
affected,  a  violent  gesture  betrayed  his  internal  convulsions 
from  time  to  time. 

"  How  is  she  to  be  saved  ?  " 

Gringoire  said  to  him ;  "  Master,  I  will  reply  to  you ;  H 
padelt,  which  means  in  Turkish,  '  God  is  our  hope.' " 

"  How  is  she  to  be  saved  ?  "  repeated  Claude  dreamily. 

Gringoire  smote  his  brow  in  his  turn. 

"  Listen,  master.  I  have  imagination  ;  I  will  devise  exped- 
ients for  you.  What  if  one  were  to  ask  her  pardon  from  the 
king  ?  " 

"  Of  Louis  XL  !  A  pardon ! " 

"Why  not?" 

"  To  take  the  tiger's  bone  from  him  ! " 

Gringoire  began  to  seek  fresh  expedients. 

"Well,  stay!  Shall  I  address  to  the  midwives  a  request 
accompanied  by  the  declaration  that  the  girl  is  with  child !  " 

This  made  the  priest's  hollow  eye  flash. 

"  With  child !  knave  !  do  you  know  anything  of  this  ?  " 

Gringoire  was  alarmed  by  his  air.  He  hastened  to  say, 
"  Oh,  no,  not  I !  Our  marriage  was  a  real  forismaritagium.  I 
stayed  outside.  But  one  might  obtain  a  respite,  all  the  same." 

-Madness!  Infamy!  Hold  your  tongue !" 

"  You  do  wrong  to  get  angry,"  muttered  Gringoire.  "  One 
obtains  a  respite ;  that  does  no  harm  to  any  one,  and  allows 
the  midwives,  who  are  poor  women,  to  earn  forty  deniers 
parisis." 

The  priest  was  not  listening  to  him ! 

"But  she  must  leave  that  place,  nevertheless ! ' 
mured,    "the   decree   is   to  be   executed  within  three  days. 


181  NOTRE-DAME. 

Moreover,  there  will  be  no  decree ;  that  Quasimodo !  "Women 
have  very  depraved  tastes ! "  He  raised  his  voice  :  "  Master 
Pierre,  I  have  reflected  well ;  there  is  but  one  means  of  safety 
for  her." 

"  What  ?  I  see  none  myself." 

"Listen,  Master  Pierre,  remember  that  you  owe  your  life 
to  her.  I  will  tell  you  my  idea  frankly.  The  church  is 
watched  night  and  day ;  only  those  are  allowed  to  come  out, 
who  have  been  seen  to  enter.  Hence  you  can  enter.  You 
will  come.  I  will  lead  you  to  her.  You  will  change  clothes 
with  her.  She  will  take  your  doublet ;  you  will  take  her 
petticoat." 

"So  far,  it  goes  well,"  remarked  the  philosopher,  "and 
then  ?  " 

"  And  then  ?  she  will  go  forth  in  your  garments ;  you  will 
remain  with  hers.  You  will  be  hanged,  perhaps,  but  she  will 
be  saved." 

Gringoire  scratched  his  ear,  with  a  very  serious  air. 
"  Stay ! "  said  he,  "  that  is  an  idea  which  would  never  have 
occurred  to  me  unaided.'' 

At  Dom  Claude's  proposition,  the  open  and  benign  face  of 
the  poet  had  abruptly  clouded  over,  like  a  smiling  Italian 
landscape,  when  an  unlucky  squall  comes  up  and  dashes  a 
cloud  across  the  sun. 

"  Well !  Gringoire,  what  say  you  to  the  means  ?  " 

"  I  say,  master,  that  I  shall  not  be  hanged,  perchance,  but 
that  I  shall  be  hanged  indubitably. 

"  That  concerns  us  not." 

"  The  deuce  ! "  said  Gringoire. 

"She  has  saved  your  life.  'Tis  a  debt  that  you  are  dis- 
charging." 

"There  are  a  great  many  others  which  I  do  not  discharge." 

"  Master  Pierre,  it  is  absolutely  necessary." 

The  archdeacon  spoke  imperiously." 

"Listen,  Dom  Claude,"  replied  the  poet  in  utter  conster- 
nation. You  cling  to  that  idea,  and  you  are  wrong.  I  do 
not  see  why  I  should  get  myself  hanged  in  some  one  else's 
place." 


GEINGOIRE  HAS  MANY  GOOD  IDEAS.  185 

"  What  have  you,  then,  which  attaches  you  so  strongly  to 
life  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  a  thousand  reasons ! " 

"  What  reasons,  if  you  please  ?  " 

"What?  The  air,  the  sky,  the  morning,  the  evening,  the 
moonlight,  my  good  friends  the  thieves,  our  jeers  with  the 
old  hags  of  go-betweens,  the  fine  architecture  of  Paris  to 
study,  three  great  books  to  make,  one  of  them  being  against 
the  bishops  and  his  mills ;  and  how  can  I  tell  all  ?  Anaxa- 
goras  said  that  he  was  in  the  world  to  admire  the  sun.  And 
then,  from  morning  till  night,  I  have  the  happiness  of  passing 
all  my  days  with  a  man  of  genius,  who  is  myself,  which  is 
very  agreeable." 

"A  head  fit  for  a  mule  bell!"  muttered  the  archdeacon. 
"  Oh !  tell  me  who  preserved  for  you  that  life  which  you 
render  so  charming  to  yourself?  To  whom  do  you  owe  it 
that  you  breathe  that  air,  behold  that  sky,  and  can  still 
amuse  your  lark's  mind  with  your  whimsical  nonsense  and 
madness  ?  Where  would  you  be,  had  it  not  been  for  her  ? 
Do  you  then  desire  that  she  through  whom  you  are  alive, 
should  die  ?  that  she  should  die,  that  beautiful,  sweet,  adora- 
ble creature,  who  is  necessary  to  the  light  of  the  world  and 
more  divine  than  God,  while  you,  half  wise,  and  half  fool, 
a  vain  sketch  of  something,  a  sort  of  vegetable,  which  thinks 
that  it  walks,  and  thinks  that  it  thinks,  you  will  continue  to 
live  with  the  life  which  you  have  stolen  from  her,  as  useless 
as  a  candle  in  broad  daylight?  Come,  have  a  little  pity, 
Gringoire  ;  be  generous  in  your  turn ;  it  was  she  who  set  the 
example." 

The  priest  was  vehement.  Gringoire  listened  to  him  at  first 
with  an  undecided  air,  then  he  became  touched,  and  wound  up 
with  a  grimace  which  made  his  pallid  face  resemble  that  of  a 
new-born  infant  with  an  attack  of  the  colic. 

"  You  are  pathetic  ! "  said  he,  wiping  away  a  tear.     "  We 
I  will  think  about  it.     That's  a  queer  idea  of  yours.— After 
all,"  he  continued  after  a  pause,  "who  knows  ?  perhaps  they 
will  not  hang  me.     He  who  becomes  betrothed  does  not  always 
marry.    When  they  find  me  in  that  little  lodging  so  grotesquely 


186  NOTEE-DAME. 

muffled  in  petticoat  and  coif,  perchance  they  will  burst  with 
laughter.  And  then,  if  they  do  hang  me,  —  well !  the  halter 
is  as  good  a  death  as  any.  'Tis  a  death  worthy  of  a  sage  who 
has  wavered  all  his  life ;  a  death  which  is  neither  flesh  nor 
fish,  like  the  mind  of  a  veritable  sceptic ;  a  death  all 
stamped  with  Pyrrhonism  and  hesitation,  which  holds  the 
middle  station  betwixt  heaven  and  earth,  which  leaves  you 
in  suspense.  'Tis  a  philosopher's  death,  and  I  was  destined 
thereto,  perchance.  It  is  magnificent  to  die  as  one  has 
lived." 

The  priest  interrupted  him :  "  Is  it  agreed." 

"  What  is  death,  after  all  ?  "  pursued  Gringoire  with  exalta- 
tion. "A  disagreeable  moment,  a  toll-gate,  the  passage  of 
little  to  nothingness.  Some  one  having  asked  Cercidas,  the 
Megalopolitan,  if  he  were  willing  to  die :  '  Why  not  ? '  he 
replied;  'for  after  my  death  I  shall  see  those  great  men, 
Pythagoras  among  the  philosophers,  Hecataeus  among  histo- 
rians, Homer  among  poets,  Olympus  among  musicians.' " 

The  archdeacon  gave  him  his  hand :  "  It  is  settled,  then  ? 
You  will  come  to-morrow  ?  " 

This  gesture  recalled  Gringoire  to  reality. 

"Ah !  i'  faith  no  ! "  he  said  in  the  tone  of  a  man  just  waking 
up.  "  Be  hanged !  'tis  too  absurd.  I  will  not." 

"  Farewell,  then ! "  and  the  archdeacon  added  between  his 
teeth :  "  I'll  find  you  again  !  " 

"  I  do  not  want  that  devil  of  a  man  to  find  me,"  thought 
Gringoire ;  and  he  ran  after  Dom  Claude.  "  Stay,  monsieur 
the  archdeacon,  no  ill-feeling  between  old  friends  !  You  take 
an  interest  in  that  girl,  my  wife,  I  mean,  and  'tis  well.  You 
have  devised  a  scheme  to  get  her  out  of  Xotre-Dame,  but  your 
way  is  extremely  disagreeable  to  me,  Gringoire.  If  I  had 
only  another  one  myself!  I  beg  to  say  that  a  luminous 
inspiration  has  just  occurred  to  me.  If  I  possessed  an  expe- 
dient for  extricating  her  from  a  dilemma,  without  compromis- 
ing my  own  neck  to  the  extent  of  a  single  running  knot,  what 
would  you  say  to  it  ?  Will  not  that  suffice  you  ?  Is  it  abso- 
lutely necessary  that  I  should  be  hanged,  in  order  that  you 
may  be  content  ?  " 


GRINGOIRE  HAS  MANY  GOOD  IDEAS.  187 

The  priest  tore  out  the  buttons  of  his  cassock  with  impa- 
tience :  "  Stream  of  words  !  What  is  your  plan  ?  " 

"  Yes/'  resumed  Gringoire,  talking  to  himself  and  touching 
his  nose  with  his  forefinger  in  sign  of  meditation,  — "  that's 
it !  —  The  thieves  are  brave  fellows  !  —  The  tribe  of  Egypt 
love  her  !  —  They  will  rise  at  the  first  word  !  —  Nothing 
easier  !  —  A  sudden  stroke.  —  Under  cover  of  the  disorder, 
they  will  easily  carry  her  off !  —  Beginning  to-morrow  evening. 
They  will  ask  nothing  better. 

"  The  plan  !  speak,"  cried  the  archdeacon  shaking  him. 

Gringoire  turned  majestically  towards  him :  "  Leave  me ! 
You  see  that  I  am  composing."  He  meditated  for  a  few 
moments  more,  then  began  to  clap  his  hands  over  his  thought, 
crying :  "Admirable !  success  is  sure  ! " 

"  The  plan  ! "  repeated  Claude  in  wrath. 

Gringoire  was  radiant. 

"  Come,  that  I  may  tell  you  that  very  softly.  'Tis  a  truly 
gallant  counter-plot,  which  will  extricate  us  all  from  the  mat- 
ter. Pardieu,  it  must  be  admitted  that  I  am  no  fool." 

He  broke  off. 

"  Oh,  by  the  way  !  is  the  little  goat  with  the  wench  ?  " 

"  Yes.     The  devil  take  you  ! " 

"They  would  have  hanged  it  also,  would  they  not?" 

"  What  is  that  to  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  they  would  have  hanged  it.  They  hanged  a  sow  last 
month.  The  headsman  loveth  that ;  he  eats  the  beast  after- 
wards. Take  my  pretty  Djali !  Poor  little  lamb ! ' 

"Malediction!"  exclaimed  Dom  Claude.  "You  are  the 
executioner.  What  means  of  safety  have  you  found,  knave  ? 
Must  your  idea  be  extracted  with  the  forceps  ?  " 

"  Very  fine,  master,  this  is  it." 

Gringoire  bent  his  head  to  the  archdeacon's  head  and  spoke 
to  him  in  a  very  low  voice,  casting  an  uneasy  glance  the  while 
from  one  end  to  the  other  of  the  street,  though  no  one  was 
passing.  When  he  had  finished,  Dom  Claude  took  his^hand 
and  said  coldly  :  "  'Tis  well.  Farewell  until  to-morrow." 

"Until  to-morrow,"  repeated  Gringoire.  And,  while  the 
archdeacon  was  disappearing  in  one  direction,  he  set  off  in 


188 


NOTKE-DAME. 


the  other,  saying  to  himself  in  a  low  voice :  "  Here's  a 
grand  affair,  Monsieur  Pierre  Gringoire.  Never  mind !  'Tis 
not  written  that  because  one  is  of  small  account  one  should 
take  fright  at  a  great  enterprise.  Bitou  carried  a  great  bull 
on  his  shoulders  ;  the  water- wagtails,  the  warblers,  and  the 
buntings  traverse  the  ocean." 


CHAPTER  II. 

TURN   VAGABOND. 

ON  re-entering  the  cloister,  the  archdeacon  found  at  the  door 
of  his  cell  his  brother  Jehan  du  Moulin,  who  was  waiting  for 
him,  and  who  had  beguiled  the  tedium  of  waiting  by  drawing 
on  the  wall  with  a  bit  of  charcoal,  a  profile  of  his  elder 
brother,  enriched  with  a  monstrous  nose. 

Dom  Claude  hardly  looked  at  his  brother;  his  thoughts 
were  elsewhere.  That  merry  scamp's  face  whose  beaming  had 
so  often  restored  serenity  to  the  priest's  sombre  physiognomy, 
was  now  powerless  to  melt  the  gloom  which  grew  more  dense 
every  day  over  that  corrupted,  mephitic,  and  stagnant  soul. 

"Brother,"  said  Jehan  timidly,  "  I  am  come  to  see  you." 

The  archdeacon  did  not  even  raise  his  eyes. 

"What  then?" 

"Brother,"  resumed  the  hypocrite,  "you  are  so  good  to  me, 
and  you  give  me  such  wise  counsels  that  I  always  return  to 
you." 

"What  next?" 

"  Alas  !  brother,  you  were  perfectly  right  when  you  said  to 
me,  —  "  Jehan  !  Jehan  !  cessat  doctor um  doctrina,  discipulorum 
disciplina.  Jehan,  be  wise,  Jehan,  be  learned,  Jehan,  pass 
not  the  night  outside  of  the  college  without  lawful  occasion 
and  due  leave  of  the  master.  Cudgel  not  the  Picards :  noli, 
Joannes,  verberare  Picardos.  Rot  not  like  an  unlettered  ass, 
quasi  asinus  illitteratus,  on  the  straw  seats  of  the  school. 
Jehan,  allow  yourself  to  be  punished  at  the  discretion  of  the 

189 


190  NOTBE-DAME. 

master.  Jehan  go  every  evening  to  chapel,  and  sing  there  an 
anthem  with  verse  and  orison  to  Madame  the  glorious  Virgin 
Mary.  —  Alas  !  what  excellent  advice  was  that ! " 

"And  then?" 

"  Brother,  you  behold  a  culprit,  a  criminal,  a  wretch,  a  liber- 
tine, a  man  of  enormities !  My  dear  brother,  Jehan  hath  made 
of  your  counsels  straw  and  dung  to  trample  under  foot.  I 
have  been  well  chastised  for  it,  and  God  is  extraordinarily  just. 
As  long  as  I  had  money,  I  feasted,  I  lead  a  mad  and  joyous 
life.  Oh !  how  ugly  and  crabbed  behind  is  debauch  which  is 
so  charming  in  front !  Now  I  have  no  longer  a  blank ;  I  have 
sold  my  napery,  my  shirt  and  my  towels ;  no  more  merry  life  ! 
The  beautiful  candle  is  extinguished  and  I  have  henceforth, 
only  a  wretched  tallow  dip  which  smokes  in  my  nose.  The 
wenches  jeer  at  me.  I  drink  water.  I  am  overwhelmed  with 
remorse  and  with  creditors. 

"  The  rest  ?  "  said  the  archdeacon. 

"  Alas !  my  very  dear  brother,  I  should  like  to  settle  down 
to  a  better  life.  I  come  to  you  full  of  contrition,  I  am  peni- 
tent. I  make  my  confession.  I  beat  my  breast  violently. 
You  are  quite  right  in  wishing  that  I  should  some  day  become 
a  licentiate  and  sub-monitor  in  the  college  of  Torchi.  At  the 
present  moment  I  feel  a  magnificent  vocation  for  that  profes- 
sion. But  I  have  no  more  ink  and  I  must  buy  some ;  I  have 
no  more  paper,  I  have  no  more  books,  and  I  must  buy  some. 
For  this  purpose,  I  am  greatly  in  need  of  a  little  money,  and 
I  come  to  you,  brother,  with  my  heart  full  of  contrition." 

"Is  that  all?" 

"  Yes,"  said  the  scholar.     "  A  little  money." 

"  I  have  none." 

Then  the  scholar  said,  with  an  air  which  was  both  grave  and 
resolute  :  "  Well,  brother,  I  am  sorry  to  be  obliged  to  tell  you 
that  very  fine  offers  and  propositions  are  being  made  to  me  in 
another  quarter.  You  will  not  give  me  any  money  ?  Xo.  Iii 
that  case  I  shall  become  a  professional  vagabond." 

As  he  uttered  these  monstrous  words,  he  assumed  the  mien 
of  Ajax,  expecting  to  see  the  lightnings  descend  upon  his 
head. 


TURN   VAGABOND. 


191 


The  archdeacon  said  coldly  to  him, — 

"  Become  a  vagabond." 

Jehan  made  him  a  deep  bow,  and  descended  the  cloister 
stairs,  whistling. 

At  the  moment  when  he  was  passing  through  the  courtyard 
of  the  cloister,  beneath  his  brother's  window,  he  heard  that 
window  open,  raised  his  eyes  and  beheld  the  archdeacon's 
severe  head  emerge. 

"  Go  to  the  devil ! "  said  Dom  Claude ;  "  here  is  the  last 
money  which  you  will  get  from  me  ?  " 

At  the  same  time,  the  priest  flung  Jehan  a  purse,  which 
gave  the  scholar  a  big  bump  on  the  forehead,  and  with  which 
Jehan  retreated,  both  vexed  and  content,  like  a  dog  who  had 
been  stoned  with  marrow  bones. 


CHAPTER  III. 

LONG   LIVE   MIBTH. 

THE  reader  has  probably  not  forgotten  that  a  part  of  the 
Cour  de  Miracles  was  enclosed  by  the  ancient  wall  which  sur- 
rounded the  city,  a  goodly  number  of  whose  towers  had  begun, 
even  at  that  epoch,  to  fall  to  ruin.  One  of  these  towers  had 
been  converted  into  a  pleasure  resort  by  the  vagabonds.  There 
was  a  dram-shop  in  the  underground  story,  and  the  rest  in  the 
upper  stories.  This  was  the  most  lively,  and  consequently 
the  most  hideous,  point  of  the  whole  outcast  den.  It  was  a 
sort  of  monstrous  hive,  which  buzzed  there  night  and  day. 
At  night,  when  the  remainder  of  the  beggar  horde  slept,  when 
there  was  no  longer  a  window  lighted  in  the  dingy  facades  of 
the  Place,  when  not  a  cry  was  any  longer  to  be  heard  proceed- 
ing from  those  innumerable  families,  those  ant-hills  of  thieves, 
of  wenches,  and  stolen  or  bastard  children,  the  merry  tower 
was  still  recognizable  by  the  noise  which  it  made,  by  the  scarlet 
light  which,  flashing  simultaneously  from  the  air-holes,  the 
windows,  the  fissures  in  the  cracked  walls,  escaped,  so  to 
speak,  from  its  every  pore. 

The  cellar  then,  was  the  dram-shop.  The  descent  to  it  was 
through  a  low  door  and  by  a  staircase  as  steep  as  a  classic 
Alexandrine.  Over  the  door,  by  way  of  a  sign  there  hung  a 
marvellous  daub,  representing  new  sous  and  dead  chickens,  * 
with  this  pun  below  :  Aux  sonneurs  pour  les  trepasses,  —  The 
wringers  for  the  dead. 

*  Sols  neuf s :  poulets  tu6s. 
192 


LONG  LIVE  MIRTH. 


193 


One  evening  when  the  curfew  was  sounding  from  all  the 
belfries  in  Paris,  the  sergeants  of  the  watch  might  have  ob- 
served, had  it  been  granted  to  them  to  enter  the  formidable 
Court  of  Miracles,  that  more  tumult  than  usual  was  in  prog- 
ress in  the  vagabonds'  tavern,  that  more  drinking  was  being 
done,  and  louder  swearing.  Outside  in  the  Place,  there  were 
many  groups  conversing  in  low  tones,  as  when  some  great 
plan  is  being  framed,  and  here  and  there  a  knave  crouching 
down  engaged  in  sharpening  a  villanous  iron  blade  on  a 
paving-stone. 

Meanwhile,  in  the  tavern  itself,  wine  and  gaming  offered 
such  a  powerful  diversion  to  the  ideas  which  occupied  the 
vagabonds'  lair  that  evening,  that  it  would  have  been  difficult 
to  divine  from  the  remarks  of  the  drinkers,  what  was  the  mat- 
ter in  hand.  They  merely  wore  a  gayer  air  than  was  their 
wont,  and  some  weapon  could  be  seen  glittering  between  the 
legs  of  each  of  them,  —  a  sickle,  an  axe,  a  big  two-edged  sword 
or  the  hook  of  an  old  hackbut. 

The  room,  circular  in  form,  was  very  spacious ;  but  the 
tables  were  so  thickly  set  and  the  drinkers  so  numerous,  that 
all  that  the  tavern  contained,  men,  women,  benches,  beer-jugs, 
all  that  were  drinking,  all  that  were  sleeping,  all  that  were 
playing,  the  well,  the  lame,  seemed  piled  up  pell-mell,  with  as 
much  order  and  harmony  as  a  heap  of  oyster  shells.  There 
were  a  few  tallow  dips  lighted  on  the  tables ;  but  the  real 
luminary  of  this  tavern,  that  which  played  the  part  in  this 
dram-shop  of  the  chandelier  of  an  opera  house,  was  the  fire. 
This  cellar  was  so  damp  that  the  fire  was  never  allowed  to  go 
out,  even  in  midsummer ;  an  immense  chimney  with  a  sculpt- 
ured mantel,  all  bristling  with  heavy  iron  andirons  and  cooking 
utensils,  with  one  of  those  huge  fires  of  mixed  wood  and  peat 
which  at  night,  in  village  streets  make  the  reflection  of  forge 
windows  stand  out  so  red  on  the  opposite  walls.  A  big  dog 
gravely  seated  in  the  ashes  was  turning  a  spit  loaded  with 
meat  before  the  coals. 

Great  as  was  the  confusion,  after  the  first  glance  one  could 
distinguish  in  that  multitude,  three  principal  groups  which 
thronged  around  three  personages  already  known  to  the  reader. 


194  NOTRE-DAME. 

One  of  these  personages,  fantastically  accoutred  in  many  an 
oriental  rag,  was  Mathias  Hungadi  Spicali,  Duke  of  Egypt 
and  Bohemia.  The  knave  was  seated  on  a  table  with  his 
legs  crossed,  and  in  a  loud  voice  was  bestowing  his  knowledge 
of  magic,  both  black  and  white,  on  many  a  gaping  face  which 
surrounded  him.  Another  rabble  pressed  close  around  our  old 
friend,  the  valiant  King  of  Thunes,  armed  to  the  teeth. 
Clopin  Trouillefou,  with  a  very  serious  air  and  in  a  low  voice, 
was  regulating  the  distribution  of  an  enormous  cask  of  arms, 
which  stood  wide  open  in  front  of  him  and  from  whence 
poured  out  in  profusion,  axes,  swords,  bassinets,  coats  of  mail, 
broadswords,  lance-heads,  arrows,  and  viretons,  *  like  apples 
and  grapes  from  a  horn  of  plenty.  Every  one  took  something 
from  the  cask,  one  a  morion,  another  a  long,  straight  sword, 
another  a  dagger  with  a  cross-shaped  hilt.  The  very  children 
were  arming  themselves,  and  there  were  even  cripples  in 
bowls  who,  in  armor  and  cuirass,  made  their  way  between  the 
legs  of  the  drinkers  like  great  beetles. 

Finally,  a  third  audience,  the  most  noisy,  the  most  jovial, 
and  the  most  numerous,  encumbered  benches  and  tables,  in  the 
midst  of  which  harangued  and  swore  a  flute-like  voice,  wlik-h 
escaped  from  beneath  a  heavy  armor,  complete  from  casque  to 
spurs.  The  individual  who  had  thus  screwed  a  whole  outfit 
upon  his  body,  was  so  hidden  by  his  warlike  accoutrements 
that  nothing  was  to  be  seen  of  his  person  save  an  impertinent, 
red,  snub  nose,  a  rosy  mouth,  and  bold  eyes.  His  belt  was 
full  of  daggers  and  poniards,  a  huge  sword  on  his  hip,  a  rusted 
cross-bow  at  his  left,  and  a  vast  jug  of  wine  in  front  of  him, 
without  reckoning  on  his  right,  a  fat  wench  with  her  bosom 
uncovered.  All  mouths  around  him  were  laughing,  cursing, 
and  drinking. 

Add  twenty  secondary  groups,  the  waiters,  male  and  female, 
running  with  jugs  on  their  heads,  gamblers  squatting  over 
taws,  merelles,  f  dice,  vachettes,  the  ardent  game  of  tringlet, 

*  An  arrow  with  a  pyramidal  head  of  iron  and  copper  spiral  wings,  by 
which  a  rotatory  motion  was  communicated. 

t  A  game  played  on  a  checker-board  containing  three  concentric  sets  of 
squares,  with  small  stones.  The  game  consisted  in  getting  three  stones 
in  a  row. 


LONG  LIVE  MIRTH.  195 

quarrels  in  one  corner,  kisses  in  another,  and  the  reader  will 
have  some  idea  of  this  whole  picture,  over  which  flickered  the 
light  of  a  great,  naming  fire,  which  made  a  thousand  huge  and 
grotesque  shadows  dance  over  the  walls  of  the  drinking  shop. 

As  for  the  noise,  it  was  like  the  inside  of  a  bell  at  full 
peal. 

The  dripping-pan,  where  crackled  a  rain  of  grease,  filled 
with  its  continual  sputtering  the  intervals  of  these  thousand 
dialogues,  which  intermingled  from  one  end  of  the  apartment 
to  the  other. 

In  the  midst  of  this  uproar,  at  the  extremity  of  the  tavern, 
on  the  bench  inside  the  chimney,  sat  a  philosopher  meditating 
with  his  feet  in  the  ashes  and  his  eyes  on  the  brands.  It  was 
Pierre  Gringoire. 

"  Be  quick  !  make  haste,  arm  yourselves  !  we  set  out  on 
the  march  in  an  hour  ! "  said  Clopin  Trouillefou  to  his  thieves. 

A  wench  was  humming,  — 

"  Bonsoir  mon  pere  et  ma  mere, 
Les  derniers  couvrent  le  feu."  * 

Two  card  players  were  disputing,  — 

"  Knave  ! "  cried  the  reddest  faced  of  the  two,  shaking  his 
fist  at  the  other;  "I'll  mark  you  with  the  club.  You  can 
take  the  place  of  Mistigri  in  the  pack  of  cards  of  monseigneur 
the  king." 

"  Ugh  ! "  roared  a  Norman,  recognizable  by  his  nasal  accent  ,- 
"  we  are  packed  in  here  like  the  saints  of  Caillouville  ! " 

"  My  sons,"  the  Duke  of  Egypt  was  saying  to  his  audience, 
in  a  falsetto  voice,  "  sorceresses  in  France  go  to  the  witches' 
sabbath  without  broomsticks,  or  grease,  or  steed,  merely  by 
means  of  some  magic  words.  The  witches  of  Italy  always 
have  a  buck  waiting  for  them  at  their  door.  All  are  bound 
to  go  out  through  the  chimney." 

The  voice  of  the  young  scamp  armed  from  head  to  foot, 
dominated  the  uproar. 

"Hurrah!  hurrah!"  he  was  shouting.  "My  first  day  in 
armor !  Outcast !  I  am  an  outcast.  Give  me  something  to 
*  Good  night,  father  and  mother,  the  last  cover  up  the  fire. 


196  NOTRE-DAME. 

drink.  My  friends,  my  name  is  Jehan  Frollo  du  Moulin,  and 
I  am  a  gentleman.  My  opinion  is  that  if  God  were  a  gen- 
darme, he  would  turn  robber.  Brothers,  we  are  about  to  set 

.  * 

out  on  a  fine  expedition.     Lay  siege  to  the  church,  burst  in 

the  doors,  drag  out  the  beautiful  girl,  save  her  from  the 
judges,  save  her  from  the  priests,  dismantle  the  cloister,  burn 
the  bishop  in  his  palace  —  all  this  we  will  do  in  less  time 
than  it  takes  for  a  burgomaster  to  eat  a  spoonful  of  soup. 
Our  cause  is  just,  we  will  plunder  Notre-Dame  and  that  will 
be  the  end  of  it.  We  will  hang  Quasimodo.  Do  you  know 
Quasimodo,  ladies  ?  Have  you  seen  him  make  himself  breath- 
less on  the  big  bell  on  a  grand  Pentecost  festival !  Corne  du 
Pere  !  'tis  very  fine  !  One  would  say  he  was  a  devil  mounted 
on  a  man.  Listen  to  me,  my  friends ;  I  am  a  vagabond  to  the 
bottom  of  my  heart,  I  am  a  member  of  the  slang  thief  gang 
in  my  soul,  I  was  born  an  independent  thief.  I  have  been 
rich,  and  I  have  devoured  all  my  property.  My  mother  wanted 
to  make  an  officer  of  me ;  my  father,  a  sub-deacon ;  my  aunt, 
a  councillor  of  inquests;  my  grandmother,  prothonotary  to 
the  king ;  my  great  aunt,  a  treasurer  of  the  short  robe,  —  and 
I  have  made  myself  an  outcast.  I  said  this  to  my  father,  who 
spit  his  curse  in  my  face ;  to  my  mother,  who  set  to  weeping 
and  chattering,  poor  old  lady,  like  yonder  fagot  on  the  and- 
irons. Long  live  mirth !  I  am  a  real  Bicetre.  Waitress,  my 
dear,  more  wine.  I  have  still  the  wherewithal  to  pay.  I 
want  no  more  Surene  wine.  It  distresses  my  throat.  I'd  as 
lief,  corbceuf!  gargle  my  throat  with  a  basket." 

Meanwhile,  the  rabble  applauded  with  shouts  of  laughter ; 
and  seeing  that  the  tumult  was  increasing  around  him.  the 
scholar  cried,  — 

"  Oh !  what  a  fine  noise !  Populi  debacchantis  populosa 
debacchatio  f "  Then  he  began  to  sing,  his  eye  swimming  in 
ecstasy,  in  the  tone  of  a  canon  intoning  vespers,  Qnce  cantica  ! 
quce  organa  !  quce  cantilence  !  quce  melodife  hie  sine  fine  decan- 
tantur !  Sonant  melliflua  hymnorum  orijurin.  .>•//'/ r/.Wwa  anyel- 
orum  melodia,  cantica  canticorum  miraf"  He  broke  off: 
"  Tavern-keeper  of  the  devil,  give  me  some  supper  ! " 

There  was  a  moment  of  partial  silence,  during  which  the 


LONG   LIVE  MIRTH.  197 

sharp  voice  of  the  Duke  of  Egypt  rose,  as  he  gave  instruc- 
tions to  his  Bohemians. 

"  The  weasel  is  called  Adrune ;  the  fox,  Blue-foot,  or  the 
Racer  of  the  Woods  ;  the  wolf,  Gray -foot,  or  Gold-foot ;  the 
bear  the  Old  Man,  or  Grandfather.  The  cap  of  a  gnome  con- 
fers invisibility,  and  causes  one  to  behold  invisible  things. 
Every  toad  that  is  baptized  must  be  clad  in  red  or  black 
velvet,  a  bell  on  its  neck,  a  bell  on  its  feet.  The  godfather 
holds  its  head,  the  godmother  its  hinder  parts.  'Tis  the 
demon  Sidragasum  who  hath  the  power  to  make  wenches 
dance  stark  naked." 

"  By  the  mass  ! "  interrupted  Jehan,  "  I  should  like  to  be 
the  demon  Sidragasum." 

Meanwhile,  the  vagabonds  continued  to  arm  themselves  and 
whisper  at  the  other  end  of  the  dram-shop. 

"That  poor  Esmeralda!"  said  a  Bohemian.  "She  is  our 
sister.  She  must  be  taken  away  from  there." 

"  Is  she  still  at  Notre-Dame  ?  "  went  on  a  merchant  with 
the  appearance  of  a  Jew. 

"  Yes,  pardieu  ! " 

"Well!  comrades!"  exclaimed  the  merchant,  "to  Notre- 
Dame  !  So  much  the  better,  since  there  are  in  the  chapel  of 
Saints  Fereol  and  Ferrution  two  statues,  the  one  of  John  the 
Baptist,  the  other  of  Saint-Antoine,  of  solid  gold,  weighing 
together  seven  marks  of  gold  and  fifteen  estellins ;  and  the 
pedestals  are  of  silver-gilt,  of  seventeen  marks,  five  ounces. 
I  know  that ;  I  am  a  goldsmith." 

Here  they  served  Jehan  with  his  supper.  As  he  threw 
himself  back  on  the  bosom  of  the  wench  beside  him,  he 
exclaimed, —  ^  . 

"By    Saint    Voult-de-Lucques,    whom    people    call 
Goguelu,  I  am  perfectly  happy.     I   have  before  me   aj 
who  gazes  at  me  with  the  smooth  face  of  an  archduke.     Here 
is  one  on  my  left  whose  teeth  are  so  long  that  they  hide  1 
chin.     And  then,  I  am  like  the  Marshal  de  Gie  at  the  si< 
of  Pontoise,  I  have  my  right  resting  on  a  hillock. 
Mahomf  Comrade  !  you  have  the  air  of  a  merchant  of  te 
balls;    and  you  come  and  sit  yourself  beside  me! 


198  NOTBE-DAME. 

nobleman,  my  friend !  Trade  is  incompatible  -with  nobility. 
Get  out  of  that !  Hola  he !  You  others,  don't  fight !  What, 
Baptiste  Croque-Oison,  you  who  have  such  a  fine  nose  are 
going  to  risk  it  against  the  big  fists  of  that  lout !  Fool !  Non 
cuiquam  datum  est  habere  nasum  —  not  every  one  is  favored 
with  a  nose.  You  are  really  divine,  Jacqueline  Ronge- 
Oreille !  'tis  a  pity  that  you  have  no  hair !  Hola !  my  name 
is  Jehan  Frollo,  and  my  brother  is  an  archdeacon.  May  the 
devil  fly  off  with  him !  All  that  I  tell  you  is  the  truth. 
In  turning  vagabond,  I  have  gladly  renounced  the  half  of  a 
house  situated  in  paradise,  which  my  brother  had  promised 
me.  Dimidiam  domum  in  paradiso.  I  quote  the  text.  I 
have  a  fief  in  the  Rue  Tirechappe,  and  all  the  women  are  in 
love  with  me,  as  true  as  Saint  Eloy  was  an  excellent  gold- 
smith, and  that  the  five  trades  of  the  good  city  of  Paris  are 
the  tanners,  the  tawers,  the  makers  of  cross-belts,  the  purse- 
makers,  and  the  sweaters,  and  that  Saint  Laurent  was  burnt 
with  eggshells.  I  swear  to  you,  comrades. 

"Que  je  ne  beuvrai  de  piment, 
Devant  un  an,  si  je  cyment.* 

"'Tis  moonlight,  my  charmer;  see  yonder  through  the  win- 
dow how  the  wind  is  tearing  the  clouds  to  tatters  !  Even  thus 
will  I  do  to  your  gorget.  — Wenches,  wipe  the  children's  noses 
and  snuff  the  candles.  —  Christ  and  Mahoin  !  What  am  I  eat- 
ing here,  Jupiter  ?  Ohe !  innkeeper !  the  hair  which  is  not 
on  the  heads  of  your  hussies  one  finds  in  your  omelettes.  Old 
woman  !  I  like  bald  omelettes.  May  the  devil  confound  you  ! 
—  A  fine  hostelry  of  Beelzebub,  where  the  hussies  comb  their 
heads  with  the  forks  ! 

"Et  je  n'ai  moi, 
Par  la  sang-Dieul 
Ni  foi,  ni  loi, 
Ni  feu,  ni  lieu, 
Ni  roi, 
Ni  Dieu."t 

*  That  I  will  drink  no  spiced  and  honeyed  wine  for  a  year,  if  I  am 
lying  now. 

t  And  by  the  blood  of  God,  I  have  neither  faith  nor  law,  nor  fire  nor 
dwelling-place,  nor  king  nor  God. 


LONG  LIVE  MIRTH.  199 

In  the  meantime,  Clopin  Trouillefou  had  finished  the  dis- 
tribution of  arms.  He  approached  Gringoire,  who  appeared 
to  be  plunged  in  a  profound  revery,  with  his  feet  on  an 
andiron. 

"  Friend  Pierre,"  said  the  King  of  Thunes,  "  what  the  devil 
are  you  thinking  about  ?  " 

Gringoire  turned  to  him  with  a  melancholy  smile. 

"  I  love  the  fire,  my  dear  lord.  Not  for  the  trivial  reason 
that  fire  warms  the  feet  or  cooks  our  soup,  but  because  it  has 
sparks.  Sometimes  I  pass  whole  hours  in  watching  the  sparks. 
I  discover  a  thousand  things  in  those  stars  which  are  sprinkled 
over  the  black  background  of  the  hearth.  Those  stars  are  also 
worlds." 

"Thunder,  if  I  understand  you!"  said  the  outcast.  "Do 
you  know  what  o'clock  it  is  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,"  replied  Gringoire. 

Clopin  approached  the  Duke  of  Egypt. 

"  Comrade  Mathias,  the  time  we  have  chosen  is  not  a  good 
one.  King  Louis  XI.  is  said  to  be  in  Paris." 

"Another  reason  for  snatching  our  sister  from  his  claws," 
replied  the  old  Bohemian. 

"  You  speak  like  a  man,  Mathias,"  said  the  King  of  Thunes. 
"Moreover,  we  will  act  promptly.  No  resistance  is  to  be 
feared  in  the  church.  The  canons  are  hares,  and  we  are  in 
force.  The  people  of  the  parliament  will  be  well  .balked 
to-morrow  when  they  come  to  seek  her !  Guts  of  the  pope !  I 
don't  want  them  to  hang  the  pretty  girl ! " 

Clopin  quitted  the  dram-shop. 

Meanwhile,  Jehan  was  shouting  in  a  hoarse  voice : 

"  I  eat,  I  drink,  I  am  drunk,  I  am  Jupiter !  Eh !  Pierre, 
the  Slaughterer,  if  you  look  at  me  like  that  again,  I'll  fillip 
the  dust  off  your  nose  for  you." 

Gringoire,  torn  from  his  meditations,  began  to  watch  the 
wild  and  noisy  scene  which  surrounded  him,  muttering  be- 
tween his  teeth :  "Luxuriosa  res  vinum  et  tumultuosa  ttorietas. 
Alas !  what  good  reason  I  have  not  to  drink,  and  how  excel- 
lently spoke  Saint-Benoit :  '  Vinum  apostatare  facit  etiam  sap- 
ientes  ! ' " 


200  NOTRE-DAME. 

At  that  moment,  Clopin  returned  and  shouted  in  a  voice  of 
thunder :  "  Midnight !  " 

At  this  word,  which  produced  the  effect  of  the  call  to  boot 
and  saddle  on  a  regiment  at  a  halt,  all  the  outcasts,  men, 
women,  children,  rushed  in  a  mass  from  the  tavern,  with  great 
noise  of  arms  and  old  iron  implements. 

The  moon  was  obscured. 

The  Cour  des  Miracles  was  entirely  dark.  There  was  not  a 
single  light.  One  could  make  out  there  a  throng  of  men  and 
women  conversing  in  low  tones.  They  could  be  heard  buz- 
zing, and  a  gleam  of  all  sorts  of  weapons  was  visible  in  the 
darkness.  Clopin  mounted  a  large  stone. 

"  To  your  ranks,  Argot !  "  *  he  cried.  "  Fall  into  line, 
Egypt !  Form  ranks,  Galilee  ! " 

A  movement  began  in  the  darkness.  The  immense  multi- 
tude appeared  to  form  in  a  column.  After  a  few  minutes,  the 
King  of  Thunes  raised  his  voice  once  more,  — 

"Now,  silence  to  march  through  Paris!  The  password  is, 
'  Little  sword  in  pocket ! '  The  torches  will  not  be  lighted  till 
we  reach  Notre-Dame  !  Forward,  march ! " 

Ten  minutes  later,  the  cavaliers  of  the  watch  fled  in  terror 
before  a  long  procession  of  black  and  silent  men  which  was 
descending  towards  the  Pont  au  Change,  through  the  tortuous 
streets  which  pierce  the  close-built  neighborhood  of  the  mar- 
kets in  every  direction. 

*  Men  of  the  brotherhood  o*  slang:  thieves. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

AN"   AWKWARD    FKIEND. 

THAT  night,  Quasimodo  did  not  sleep.  He  had  just  made 
his  last  round  of  the  church.  He  -had  not  noticed,  that  at  the 
moment  when  he  was  closing  the  doors,  the  archdeacon  had 
passed  close  to  him  and  betrayed  some  displeasure  on  seeing 
him  bolting  and  barring  with  care  the  enormous  iron  locks 
which  gave  to  their  large  leaves  the  solidity  of  a  wall.  Dom 
Claude's  air  was  even  more  preoccupied  than  usual.  Moreover, 
since  the  nocturnal  adventure  in  the  cell,  he  had  constantly 
abused  Quasimodo,  but  in  vain  did  he  ill  treat,  and  even  beat 
him  occasionally,  nothing  disturbed  the  submission,  patience, 
the  devoted  resignation  of  the  faithful  bellringer.  He  en- 
dured everything  on  the  part  of  the  archdeacon,  insults, 
threats,  blows,  without  murmuring  a  complaint.  At  the  most, 
he  gazed  uneasily  after  Dom  Claude  when  the  latter  ascended 
the  staircase  of  the  tower  ;  but  the  archdeacon  had  abstained 
from  presenting  himself  again  before  the  gypsy's  eyes. 

On  that  night,  accordingly,  Quasimodo,  after  having  cast  a 
glance  at  his  poor  bells  which  he  so  neglected  now,  Jacque- 
line, Marie,  and  Thibauld,  mounted  to  the  summit  of  the 
Northern  tower,  and  there  setting  his  dark  lanturn,  well 
closed,  upon  the  leads,  he  began  to  gaze  at  Paris.  The 
night,  as  we  have  already  said,  was  very  dark.  Paris  which, 
BO  to  speak  was  not  lighted  at  that  epoch,  presented  to  the  eye 

201 


202  NOTRX-DAJO. 

a  confused  collection  of  black  masses,  cut  here  and  there  by 
the  whitish  curve  of  the  Seine.  Quasimodo  no  longer  saw 
any  light  with  the  exception  of  one  window  in  a  distant 
edifice,  whose  vague  and  sombre  profile  was  outlined  well 
above  the  roofs,  in  the  direction  of  the  Porte  Sainte-Antoine. 
There  also,  there  was  some  one  awake. 

As  the  only  eye  of  the  bellringer  peered  into  that  horizon 
of  mist  and  night,  he  felt  within  him  an  inexpressible  uneasi- 
ness. For  several  days  he  had  been  upon  his  giurd.  He  had 
perceived  men  of  sinister  mien,  who  never  took  their  eyes 
from  the  young  girl's  asylum,  prowling  constantly  about  the 
church.  He  fancied  that  some  plot  might  be  in  process  of 
formation  against  the  unhappy  refugee.  He  imagined  that 
there  existed  a  popular  hatred  against  her,  as  against  himself, 
and  that  it  was  very  possible  that  something  might  happen 
soon.  Hence  he  remained  upon  his  tower  on  the  watch, 
"dreaming  in  his  dream-place,"  as  Kabelais  says,  with  his  eye 
directed  alternately  on  the  cell  and  on  Paris,  keeping  faithful 
guard,  like  a  good  dog,  with  a  thousand  suspicions  in  his  mind. 

All  at  once,  while  he  was  scrutinizing  the  great  city  with 
that  eye  which  nature,  by  a  sort  of  compensation,  had  made 
so  piercing  that  it  could  almost  supply  the  other  organs  which 
Quasimodo  lacked,  it  seemed  to  him  that  there  was  something 
singular  about  the  Quay  de  la  Vieille-Pelleterie,  that  there 
was  a  movement  at  that  point,  that  the  line  of  the  parapet, 
standing  out  blackly  against  the  whiteness  of  the  water  was 
not  straight  and  tranquil,  like  that  of  the  other  quays,  but 
that  it  undulated  to  the  eye,  like  the  waves  of  a  river,  or  like 
the  heads  of  a  crowd  in  motion. 

This  struck  him  as  strange.  He  redoubled  his  attention. 
The  movement  seemed  to  be  advancing  towards  the  City. 
There  was  no  light.  It  lasted  for  some  time  on  the  quay ; 
then  it  gradually  ceased,  as  though  that  which  was  passing 
were  entering  the  interior  of  the  island ;  then  it  stopped  alto- 
gether, and  the  line  of  the  quay  became  straight  and  motion- 
less again. 

At  the  moment  when  Quasimodo  was  lost  in  conjectures,  it 
seemed  to  him  that  the  movement  had  re-appeared  in  the  Rue 


AN  AWKWARD   FRIEND.  203 

du  Parvis,  which  is  prolonged  into  the  city  perpendicularly 
to  the  fa9ade  of  Xotre-Darne.  At  length,  dense  as  was  the 
darkness,  he  beheld  the  head  of  a  column  debouch  from  that 
street,  and  in  an  instant  a  crowd  —  of  which  nothing  could  be 
distinguished  in  the  gloom  except  that  it  was  a  crowd  —  spread 
over  the  Place. 

This  spectacle  had  a  terror  of  its  own.  It  is  probable  that 
this  singular  procession,  which  seemed  so  desirous  of  con- 
cealing itself  under  profound  darkness,  maintained  a  silence 
no  less  profound.  Nevertheless,  some  noise  must  have  escaped 
it,  were  it  only  a  trampling.  But  this  noise  did  not  even 
reach  our  deaf  man,  and  this  great  multitude,  of  which  he 
saw  hardly  anything,  and  of  which  he  heard  nothing,  though 
it  was  marching  and  moving  so  near  him,  produced  upon 
him  the  effect  of  a  rabble  of  dead  men,  mute,  impalpable, 
lost  in  a  smoke.  It  seemed  to  him,  that  he  beheld  advancing 
towards  him  a  fog  of  men,  and  that  he  saw  shadows  moving 
in  the  shadow. 

Then  his  fears  returned  to  him,  the  idea  of  an  attempt 
against  the  gypsy  presented  itself  once  more  to  his  mind. 
He  was  conscious,  in  a  confused  way,  that  a  violent  crisis  was 
approaching.  At  that  critical  moment  he  took  counsel  with 
himself,  with  better  and  prompter  reasoning  than  one  would 
have  expected  from  so  badly  organized  a  brain.  Ought  he  to 
awaken  the  gypsy  ?  to  make  her  escape  ?  Whither  ?  The 
streets  were  invested,  the  church  backed  on  the  river.  No 
boat,  no  issue  !  —  There  was  but  one  thing  to  be  done ;  to  allow 
himself  to  be  killed  on  the  threshold  of  Notre-Dame,  to  resist 
at  least  until  succor  arrived,  if  it  should  arrive,  and  not  to 
trouble  la  Esmeralda's  sleep.  This  resolution  once  taken,  he 
set  to  examining  the  enemy  with  more  tranquillity. 

The  throng  seemed  to  increase  every  moment  in  the  church 
square.  Only,  he  presumed  that  it  must  be  making  very 
little  noise,  since  the  windows  on  the  Place  remained  closed. 
All  at  once,  a  flame  flashed  up,  and  in  an  instant  seven  or 
eight  lighted  torches  passed  over  the  heads  of  the  crowd, 
shaking  their  tufts  of  flame  in  the  deep  shade.  Quasimodo 
then  beheld  distinctly  surging  in  the  Parvis  a  frightful  herd 


204  NOTRE-DAME. 

of  men  and  women  in  rags,  armed  with  scythes,  pikes,  bill- 
hooks and  partisans,  whose  thousand  points  glittered.  Here 
and  there  black  pitchforks  formed  horns  to  the  hideous  faces. 
He  vaguely  recalled  this  populace,  and  thought  that  he  recog- 
nized all  the  heads  who  had  saluted  him  as  Pope  of  the  Fools 
some  months  previously.  One  man  who  held  a  torch  in  one 
hand  and  a  club  in  the  other,  mounted  a  stone  post  and 
seemed  to  be  haranguing  them.  At  the  same  time  the  strange 
army  executed  several  evolutions,  as  though  it  were  taking 
up  its  post  around  the  church.  Quasimodo  picked  up  his 
lantern  and  descended  to  the  platform  between  the  towers,  in 
order  to  get  a  nearer  view,  and  to  spy  out  a  means  of  defence. 

Clopin  Trouillefou,  on  arriving  in  front  of  the  lofty  portal 
of  Notre-Dame  had,  in  fact,  ranged  his  troops  in  order  of 
battle.  Although  he  expected  no  resistance,  he  wished,  like 
a  prudent  general,  to  preserve  an  order  which  would  permit 
'nim  to  face,  at  need,  a  sudden  attack  of  the  watch  or  the 
police.  He  had  accordingly  stationed  his  brigade  in  such  a 
manner  that,  viewed  from  above  and  from  a  distance,  one 
would  have  pronounced  it  the  Roman  triangle  of  the  battle  of 
Ecnomus,  the  boar's  head  of  Alexander  or  the  famous  wedge 
of  Gustavus  Adolphus.  The  base  of  this  triangle  rested  on 
the  back  of  the  Place  in  such  a  manner  as  to  bar  the  entrance 
of  the  Rue  du  Parvis ;  one  of  its  sides  faced  Hotel-Dieu,  the 
other  the  Rue  Saint-Pierre-aux-Boeufs.  Clopin  Trouillefou 
had  placed  himself  at  the  apex  with  the  Duke  of  Egypt,  our 
friend  Jehan,  and  the  most  daring  of  the  scavengers. 

An  enterprise  like  that  which  the  vagabonds  were  now 
undertaking  against  Notre-Dame  was  not  a  very  rare  thing 
in  the  cities  of  the  Middle  Ages.  What  we  now  call  the 
"  police  "  did  not  exist  then.  In  populous  cities,  especially  in 
capitals,  there  existed  no  single,  central,  regulating  power. 
Feudalism  had  constructed  these  great  communities  in  a 
singular  manner.  A  city  was  an  assembly  of  a  thousand 
seigneuries,  which  divided  it  into  compartments  of  all  shapes 
and  sizes.  Hence,  a  thousand  conflicting  establishments  of 
police ;  that  is  to  say,  no  police  at  all.  In  Paris,  for  example, 
independently  of  the  hundred  and  forty-one  lords  who  laid 


AN  AWKWARD  FRIEND.  205 

claim  to  a  manor,  there  were  five  and  twenty  who  laid  claim 
to  a  manor  and. to  administering  justice,  from  the  Bishop  of 
Paris,  who  had  five  hundred  streets,  to  the  Prior  of  Notre- 
Dame  des  Champs,  who  had  four.  All  these  feudal  justices 
recognized  the  suzerain  authority  of  the  king  only  in  name. 
All  possessed  the  right  of  control  over  the  roads.  All  were 
at  home.  Louis  XI.,  that  indefatigable  worker,  who  so  largely 
began  the  demolition  of  the  feudal  edifice,  continued  by  Rich- 
elieu and  Louis  XIV.  for  the  profit  of  royalty,  and  finished  by 
Mirabeau  for  the  benefit  of  the  people,  —  Louis  XI.  had  cer- 
tainly made  an  effort  to  break  this  network  of  seignories 
which  covered  Paris,  by  throwing  violently  across  them  all 
two  or  three  troops  of  general  police.  Thus,  in  1465,  an 
order  to  the  inhabitants  to  light  candles  in  their  windows  at 
nightfall,  and  to  shut  up  their  dogs  under  penalty  of  death ; 
in  the  same  year,  an  order  to  close  the  streets  in  the  evening 
with  iron  chains,  and  a  prohibition  to  wear  daggers  or  weapons 
of  offence  in  the  streets  at  night.  But  in  a  very  short  time, 
all  these  efforts  at  communal  legislation  fell  into  abeyance. 
The  bourgeois  permitted  the  wind  to  blow  out  their  candles  in 
the  windows,  and  their  dogs  to  stray;  the  iron  chains  were 
stretched  only  in  a  state  of  siege ;  the  prohibition  to  wear 
daggers  wrought  no  other  changes  than  from  the  name  of  the 
Rue  Coupe-Gueule  to  the  name  of  the  Rue-Coupe-Gorge  * 
which  is  an  evident  progress.  The  old  scaffolding  of  feudal 
jurisdictions  remained  standing;  an  immense  aggregation  of 
bailiwicks  and  seignories  crossing  each  other  all  over  the  city, 
interfering  with  each  other,  entangled  in  one  another,  enmesh- 
ing each  other,  trespassing  on  each  other ;  a  useless  thicket 
of  Avatches,  sub-watches  and  counter-watches,  over  which,  with 
armed  force,  passed  brigandage,  rapine,  and  sedition.  Hence, 
in  this  disorder,  deeds  of  violence  on  the  part  of  the  populace 
directed  against  a  palace,  a  hotel,  or  house  in  the  most  thickly 
populated  quarters,  were  not  unheard-of  occurrences.  In  the 
majority  of  such  cases,  the  neighbors  did  not  meddle  with  the 
matter  unless  the  pillaging  extended  to  themselves.  They 
stopped  up  their  ears  to  the  musket  shots,  closed  their  shut- 

*  Cut-throat.     Coupe-gueuie  being  the  vulgar  word  for  cut-\veazand. 


206  NOTRE-DANE. 

ters,  barricaded  their  doors,  alloAved  the  matter  to  be  con- 
cluded with  or  without  the  watch,  and  the  next  day  it  was  said 
in  Paris,  "  Etienne  Barbette  was  broken  open  last  night. 
The  Marshal  de  Clermont  was  seized  last  night,  etc."  Hence, 
not  only  the  royal  habitations,  the  Louvre,  the  Palace,  the 
Bastille,  the  Tournelles,  but  simply  seignorial  residences,  the 
Petit-Bourbon,  the  Hotel  de  Sens,  the  Hotel  d'  Angouleme, 
etc.,  had  battlements  on  their  walls,  and  machicolations  over 
their  doors.  Churches  were  guarded  by  their  sanctity.  Some, 
among  the  number  Notre-Dame,  were  fortified.  The  Abbey 
of  Saint-German-des-Pres  was  castellated  like  a  baronial  man- 
sion, and  more  brass  expended  about  it  in  bombards  than  in 
bells.  Its  fortress  was  still  to  be  seen  in  1610.  To-day, 
barely  its  church  remains. 

Let  us  return  to  Notre-Dame. 

When  the  first  arrangements  were  completed,  and  we  must 
say,  to  the  honor  of  vagabond  discipline,  that  Clopin's  orders 
were  executed  in  silence,  and  with  admirable  precision,  the 
worthy  chief  of  the  band,  mounted  on  the  parapet  of  the 
church  square,  and  raised  his  hoarse  and  surly  voice,  turning 
towards  Xotre-Dame,  and  brandishing  his  torch  Avhose  light, 
tossed  by  the  wind,  and  veiled  every  moment  by  its  own 
smoke,  made  the  reddish  fa9ade  of  the  church  appear  and  dis- 
appear before  the  eye. 

"  To  you,  Louis  de  Beaumont,  bishop  of  Paris,  counsellor  in 
the  Court  of  Parliament,  I,  Clopin  Trouillfou,  king  of  Thunes, 
grand  Coesre,  prince  of  Argot,  bishop  of  fools,  I  say  :  Our 
sister,  falsely  condemned  for  magic,  hath  taken  refuge  in  your 
church,  you  owe  her  asylum  and  safety.  ISTow  the  Court  of 
Parliament  wishes  to  seize  her  once  more  there,  and  you  con- 
sent to  it ;  so  that  she  would  be  hanged  to-morrow  in  the 
Greve,  if  God  and  the  outcasts  were  not  here.  If  your  church 
is  sacred,  so  is  our  sister ;  if  our  sister  is  not  sacred,  neither 
is  your  church.  That  is  why  we  call  upon  you  to  return  the 
girl  if  you  wish  to  save  your  church,  or  we  will  take  possession 
of  the  girl  again  and  pillage  the  church,  which  will  be  a  good 
thing.  In  token  of  which  I  here  plant  my  banner,  and  may 
God  preserve  you,  bishop  of  Paris." 


AN  AWKWARD  FRIEND.  207 

Quasimodo  could  not,  unfortunately,  hear  these  words  ut- 
tered with  a  sort  of  sombre  and  savage  majesty.  A  vagabond 
presented  his  banner  to  Clopin,  who  planted  it  solemnly  be- 
tween two  paving-stones.  It  was  a  pitchfork  from  whose 
points  hung  a  bleeding  quarter  of  carrion  meat. 

That  done,  the  King  of  Thunes  turned  round  and  cast  his 
eyes  over  his  army,  a  fierce  multitude  whose  glances  flashed 
almost  equally  with  their  pikes.  After  a  momentary  pause,  — 

"  Forward,  my  sons  ! "  he  cried  ;  "to  work,  locksmiths  ! " 

Thirty  bold  men,  square  shouldered,  and  with  pick-lock  faces, 
stepped  from  the  ranks,  with  hammers,  pincers,  and  bars  of 
iron  on  their  shoulders.  They  betook  themselves  to  the  prin- 
cipal door  of  the  church,  ascended  the  steps,  and  were  soon  to 
be  seen  squatting  under  the  arch,  working  at  the  door  with 
pincers  and  levers ;  a  throng  of  vagabonds  followed  them  to 
help  or  look  on.  The  eleven  steps  before  the  portal  were 
covered  with  them. 

But  the  door  stood  firm.  "  The  devil !  'tis  hard  and  obsti- 
nate ! "  said  one.  "  It  is  old,  and  its  gristles  have  become 
bony,"  said  another.  "  Courage,  comrades  ! "  resumed  Clopin. 
''I  wager  my  head  against  a  dipper  that  you  will  have 
opened  the  door,  rescued  the  girl,  and  despoiled  the  chief  altar 
before  a  single  beadle  is  awake.  Stay  !  I  think  I  hear  the 
lock  breaking_up." 

Clopin  was  interrupted  by  a  frightful  uproar  which  re- 
sounded behind  him  at  that  moment.  He  wheeled  round. 
An  enormous  beam  had  just  fallen  from  above ;  it  had  crushed 
a  dozen  vagabonds  on  the  pavement  with  the  sound  of  a 
cannon,  breaking  in  addition,  legs  here  and  there  in  the 
crowd  of  beggars,  who  sprang  aside  with  cries  of  terror.  In 
a  twinkling,  the  narrow  precincts  of  the  church  parvis  were 
cleared.  The  locksmiths,  although  protected  by  the  deep 
vaults  of  the  portal,  abandoned  the  door  and  Clopin  himself 
retired  to  a  respectful  distance  from  the  church. 

"  I  had  a  narrow  escape  ! "  cried  Jehan.  "  I  felt  the  wind, 
of  it,  tete-de-bceuff  but  Pierre  the  Slaughterer  is  slaughtered !  " 

It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  astonishment  mingled  with 
fright  which  fell  upon  the  ruffians  in  company  with  this  beam. 


208  NOTRE-DAME. 

They  remained  for  several  minutes  with  their  eyes  in  the 
air,  more  dismayed  by  that  piece  of  wood  than  by  the  king's 
twenty  thousand  archers. 

"  Satan ! "  muttered  the  Duke  of  Egypt,  "  this  smacks  of 
magic  ! " 

"  'Tis  the  moon  which  threw  this  log  at  us,"  said  Andry  the 
Bed. 

"  Call  the  moon  the  friend  of  the  Virgin,  after  that ! "  went 
on  Francois  Chanteprune. 

"A  thousand  popes!"  exclaimed  Clopin,  "you  are  all 
fools  !  "  But  he  did  not  know  how  to  explain  the  fall  of  the 
beam. 

Meanwhile,  nothing  could  be  distinguished  on  the  facade,  to 
whose  summit  the  light  of  the  torches  did  not  reach.  The 
heavy  beam  lay  in  the  middle  of  the  enclosure,  and  groans 
were  heard  from  the  poor  wretches  who  had  received  its  first 
shock,  and  who  had  been  almost  cut  in  twain,  on  the  angle  of 
the  stone  steps. 

The  King  of  Thunes,  his  first  amazement  passed,  finally 
found  an  explanation  which  appeared  plausible  to  his  com- 
panions. 

"  Throat  of  God !  are  the  canons  defending  themselves  ? 
To  the  sack,  then  !  to  the  sack  !  " 

"  To  the  sack ! "  repeated  the  rabble,  with  a  furious  hurrah. 
A  discharge  of  crossbows  and  hackbuts  against  the  front  of  the 
church  followed. 

At  this  detonation,  the  peaceable  inhabitants  of  the  sur- 
rounding houses  woke  up  ;  many  windows  were  seen  to  open, 
and  nightcaps  and  hands  holding  candles  appeared  at  the  case- 
ments. 

"Fire  at  the  windows,"  shouted  Clopin.  The  windows 
were  immediately  closed,  and  the  poor  bourgeois,  who  had 
hardly  had  time  to  cast  a  frightened  glance  on  this  scene  of 
gleams  and  tumult,  returned,  perspiring  with  fear  to  their 
wives,  asking  themselves  whether  the  witches'  sabbath  was 
now  being  held  in  the  parvis  of  Notre-Pame,  or  whether  there 
was  an  assault  of  Burgundians,  as  in  '04.  Then  the  husbands 
thought  of  theft ;  the  wives,  of  rape  ;  and  all  trembled. 


AN  AWKWARD  FRIEND.  209 

"  To  the  sack  !  "  repeated  the  thieves'  crew  ;  but  they  dared 
not  approach.  They  stared  at  the  beam,  they  stared  at  the 
church.  The  beam  did  not  stir,  the  edifice  preserved  its  calm 
and  deserted  air ;  but  something  chilled  the  outcasts. 

"  To  work,  locksmiths  !  "  shouted  Trouillef ou.  "  Let  the 
door  be  forced ! " 

No  one  took  a  step. 

"  Beard  and  belly  ! "  said  Clopin,  "  here  be  men  afraid  of  a 
beam." 

An  old  locksmith  addressed  him  :  — 

"  Captain,  'tis  not  the  beam  which  bothers  us,  'tis  the  door, 
which  is  all  covered  with  iron  bars.  Our  pincers  are  power- 
less against  it." 

"  What  more  do  you  want  to  break  it  in  ? "  demanded 
Clopin. 

"Ah  !  we  ought  to  have  a  battering  ram." 

The  King  of  Thunes  ran  boldly  to  the  formidable  beam,  and 
placed  his  foot  upon  it :  "  Here  is  one  ! "  he  exclaimed ;  "  'tis 
the  canons  who  send  it  to  you."  And,  making  a  mocking 
salute  in  the  direction  of  the  church,  "  Thanks,  canons  ! " 

This  piece  of  bravado  produced  •  its  effects,  —  the  spell  of 
the  beam  was  broken.  The  vagabonds  recovered  their  cour- 
age ;  soon  the  heavy  joist,  raised  like  a  feather  by  two  hun- 
dred vigorous  arms,  was  flung  with  fury  against  the  great  door 
which  they  had  tried  to  batter  down.  At  the  sight  of  that 
long  beam,  in  the  half-light  which  the  infrequent  torches  of 
the  brigands  spread  over  the  Place,  thus  borne  by  that  crowd 
of  men  who  dashed  it  at  a  run  against  the  church,  one  would 
have  thought  that  he  beheld  a  monstrous  beast  with  a  thou- 
sand feet  attacking  with  lowered  head  the  giant  of  stone. 

At  the  shock  of  the  beam,  the  half  metallic  door  sounded 
like  an  immense  drum  ;  it  was  not  burst  in,  but  the  whole 
cathedral  trembled,  and  the  deepest  cavities  of  the  edifice 
were  heard  to  echo. 

At  the  same  moment,  a  shower  of  large  stones  began  to  fall 
from  the  top  of  the  fa9ade  on  the  assailants. 

"The  devil!"  cried  Jehan,  "are  the  towers  shaking  their 
balustrades  down  on  our  heads  ?  " 


210  NOTEE-DAME. 

But  the  impulse  had  been  given,  the  King  of  Thunes  had 
set  the  example.  Evidently,  the  bishop  was  defending  him- 
self, and  they  only  battered  the  door  with  the  more  rage,  in 
spite  of  the  stones  which  cracked  skulls  right  and  left. 

It  was  remarkable  that  all  these  stones  fell  one  by  one ;  but 
they  followed  each  other  closely.  The  thieves  always  felt  two 
at  a  time,  one  on  their  legs  and  one  on  their  heads.  There 
were  few  which  did  not  deal  their  blow,  and  a  large  layer  of 
dead  and  wounded  lay  bleeding  and  panting  beneath  the  feet 
of  the  assailants  who,  now  grown  furious,  replaced  each  other 
without  intermission.  The  long  beam  continued  to  belabor 
the  door,  at  regular  intervals,  like  the  clapper  of  a  bell,  the 
stones  to  rain  down,  the  door  to  groan. 

The  reader  has  no  doubt  divined  that  this  unexpected  resist- 
ance which  had  exasperated  the  outcasts  came  from  Quasi- 
modo. 

Chance  had,  unfortunately,  favored  the  brave  deaf  man. 

When  he  had  descended  to  the  platform  between  the  towers, 
his  ideas  were  all  in  confusion  He  had  run  up  and  down 
along  the  gallery  for  several  minutes  like  a  madman,  sur- 
veying from  above,  the  compact  mass  of  vagabonds  ready  to 
hurl  itself  on  the  church,  demanding  the  safety  of  the  gypsy 
from  the  devil  or  from  God.  The  thought  had  occurred  to 
him  of  ascending  to  the  southern  belfry  and  sounding  the 
alarm,  but  before  he  could  have  set  the  bell  in  motion,  before 
Marie's  voice  could  have  uttered  a  single  clamor,  was  there 
not  time  to  burst  in  the  door  of  the  church  ten  times  over  ? 
It  was  precisely  the  moment  when  the  locksmiths  were  ad- 
vancing upon  it  with  their  tools.  What  was  to  be  done  ? 

All  at  once,  he  remembered  that  some  masons  had  been  at 
work  all  day  repairing  the  wall,  the  timber-work,  and  the  roof 
of  the  south  tower.  This  was  a  flash  of  light.  The  wall  was 
of  stone,  the  roof  of  lead,  the  timber-work  of  wood.  (That  pro- 
digious timber- work,  so  dense  that  it  was  called  "  the  forest.") 

Quasimodo  hastened  to  that  tower.  The  lower  chambers 
were,  in  fact,  full  of  materials.  There  were  piles  of  rough 
blocks  of  stone,  sheets  of  lead  in  rolls,  bundles  of  laths,  heavy 
beams  already  notched  with  the  saw,  heaps  of  plaster. 


AN  AWKWARD  FRIEND.  211 

Time  was  pressing,  The  pikes  and  hammers  were  at  work 
below.  With  a  strength  which  the  sense  of  danger  increased 
tenfold,  he  seized  one  of  the  beams  —  the  longest  and  heavi- 
est;  he  pushed  it  out  through  a  loophole,  then,  grasping  it 
again  outside  of  the  tower,  lie  made  it  slide  along  the  angle  of 
the  balustrade  which  surrounds  the  platform,  and  let  it  fly 
into  the  abyss.  The  enormous  timber,  during  that  fall  of  a 
hundred  and  sixty  feet,  scraping  the  wall,  breaking  the  carv- 
ings, turned  many  times  on  its  centre,  like  the  arm  of  a 
windmill  flying  off  alone  through  space.  At  last  it  reached 
the  ground,  the  horrible  cry  arose,  and  the  black  beam,  as  it 
rebounded  from  the  pavement,  resembled  a  serpent  leaping. 

Quasimodo  beheld  the  outcasts  scatter  at  the  fall  of  the 
beam,  like  ashes  at  the  breath  of  a  child.  He  took  advantage 
of  their  fright,  and  while  they  were  fixing  a  superstitious 
glance  on  the  club  which  had  fallen  from  heaven,  and  while 
they  were  putting  out  the  eyes  of  the  stone  saints  on  the 
front  with  a  discharge  of  arrows  and  buckshot,  Quasimodo 
was  silently  piling  up  plaster,  stones,  and  rough  blocks  of 
stone,  even  the  sacks  of  tools  belonging  to  the  masons,  on  the 
edge  of  the  balustrade  from  which  the  beam  had  already  been 
hurled. 

Thus,  as  soon  as  they  began  to  batter  the  grand  door,  the 
shower  of  rough  blocks  of  stone  began  to  fall,  and  it  seemed 
to  them  that  the  church  itself  was  being  demolished  over 
their  heads. 

Any  one  who  could  have  beheld  Quasimodo  at  that  moment 
would  have  been  frightened.  Independently  of  the  projectiles 
which  he  had  piled  upon  the  balustrade,  he  had  collected  a 
heap  of  stones  on  the  platform  itself.  As  fast  as  the  blocks 
on  the  exterior  edge  were  exhausted,  he  drew  on  the  heap. 
Then  he  stooped  and  rose,  stooped  and  rose  again  with  incred- 
ible activity.  His  huge  gnome's  head  bent  over  the  balus- 
trade, then  an  enormous  stone  fell,  then  another,  then  another. 
From  time  to  time,  he  followed  a  fine  stone  with  his  eye,  and 
when  it  did  good  execution,  he  said,  "  Hum  !  " 

Meanwhile,  the  beggars  did  not  groAV  discouraged.  The 
thick  door  on  which  they  were  venting  their  fury  had  already 


212  NOTRE-DAME. 

trembled  more  than  twenty  times  beneath  the  weight  of  their 
oaken  battering-ram,  multiplied  by  the  strength  of  a  hundred 
men.  The  panels  cracked,  the  carved  work  flew  into  splin- 
ters, the  hinges,  at  every  blow,  leaped  from  their  pins,  the 
planks  yawned,  the  wood  crumbled  to  powder,  ground  between 
the  iron  sheathing.  Fortunately  for  Quasimodo,  there  was 
more  iron  than  wood. 

Nevertheless,  he  felt  that  the  great  door  was  yielding.  Al- 
though he  did  not  hear  it,  every  blow  of  the  ram  reverberated 
simultaneously  in  the  vaults  of  the  church  and  within  it. 
From  above  he  beheld  the  vagabonds,  filled  with  triumph  and 
rage,  shaking  their  fists  at  the  gloomy  facade  ;  and  both  on 
the  gypsy's  account  and  his  own  he  envied  the  wings  of  the 
owls  which  flitted  away  above  his  head  in  flocks. 

His  shower  of  stone  blocks  was  not  sufficient  to  repel  the 
assailants. 

At  this  moment  of  anguish,  he  noticed,  a  little  lower  down 
than  the  balustrade  whence  he  was  crushing  the  thieves,  two 
long  stone  gutters  which  discharged  immediately  over  the 
great  door ;  the  internal  orifice  of  these  gutters  terminated 
on  the  pavement  of  the  platform.  An  idea  occurred  to  him ;  he 
ran  in  search  of  a  fagot  in  his  bellringer's  den,  placed  on  this 
fagot  a  great  many  bundles  of  laths,  and  many  rolls  of  lead, 
munitions  which  he  had  not  employed  so  far,  and  having 
arranged  this  pile  in  front  of  the  hole  to  the  two  gutters,  he 
set  it  on  fire  with  his  lantern. 

During  this  time,  since  the  stones  no  longer  fell,  the  out- 
casts ceased  to  gaze  into  the  air.  The  bandits,  panting  like  a 
pack  of  hounds  who  are  forcing  a  boar  into  his  lair,  pressed 
tumultuously  round  the  great  door,  all  disfigured  by  the  bat- 
tering ram,  but  still  standing.  They  were  waiting  with  a 
quiver  for  the  great  blow  which  should  split  it  open.  The}' 
vied  with  each  other  in  pressing  as  close  as  possible,  in  order 
to  dash  among  the  first,  when  it  should  open,  into  that  opulent 
cathedral,  a  vast  reservoir  where  the  wealth  of  three  centuries 
had  been  piled  up.  The}*  reminded  each  other  with  roars  of 
exultation  and  greedy  lust,  of  the  beautiful  silver  crosses,  the 
fine  copes  of  brocade,  the  beautiful  tombs  of  silver  gilt,  the 


AN  AWKWARD   FRIEND.  213 

great  magnificences  of  the  choir,  the  dazzling  festivals,  the 
Christmasses  sparkling  with  torches,  the  Easters  sparkling 
with  sunshine,  —  all  those  splendid  solemneties  wherein  chan- 
deliers, ciboriums,  tabernacles,  and  reliquaries,  studHed  the 
altars  with  a  crust  of  gold  and  diamonds.  Certainly,  at  that 
fine  moment,  thieves  and  pseudo  sufferers,  doctors  in  stealing, 
and  vagabonds,  were  thinking  much  less  of  delivering  the 
gypsy  than  of  pillaging  Xotre-Dame.  We  could  even  easily 
believe  that  for  a  goodly  number  among  them  la  Esmeralda 
was  only  a  pretext,  if  thieves  needed  pretexts. 

All  at  once,  at  the  moment  when  they  were  grouping  them- 
selves round  the  ram  for  a  last  effort,  each  one  holding  his 
breath  and  stiffening  his  muscles  in  order  to  communicate  all 
his  force  to  the  decisive  blow,  a  howl  more  frightful  still  than 
that  which  had  burst  forth  and  expired  beneath  the  beam,  rose 
among  them.  Those  who  did  not  cry  out,  those  who  were 
still  alive,  looked.  Two  streams  of  melted  lead  were  falling 
from  the  summit  of  the  edifice  into  the  thickest  of  the  rabble. 
That  sea  of  men  had  just  sunk  down  beneath  the  boiling  metal, 
which  had  made,  at  the  two  points  where  it  fell,  two  black  and 
smoking  holes  in  the  crowd,  such  as  hot  water  would  make  in 
snow.  Dying  men,  half  consumed  and  groaning  with  anguish, 
could  be  seen  writhing  there.  Around  these  two  principal 
streams  there  were  drops  of  that  horrible  rain,  which  scattered 
over  the  assailants  and  entered  their  skulls  like  gimlets  of  fire. 
It  was  a  heavy  fire  which  overwhelmed  these  wretches  with  a 
thousand  hailstones. 

The  outcry  was  heartrending.  They  fled  pell-mell,  hurling 
the  beam  upon  the  bodies,  the  boldest  as  well  as  the  most 
timid,  and  the  parvis  was  cleared  a  second  time. 

All  eyes  were  raised  to  the  top  of  the  church.  They 
beheld  there  an  extraordinary  sight.  On  the  crest  of  the 
highest  gallery,  higher  than  the  central  rose  window,  there 
was  a  great  flame  rising  between  the  two  towers  with  whirl- 
winds of  sparks,  a  vast,  disordered,  and  furious  flame,  a  tongue 
of  which  was  borne  into  the  smoke  by  the  wind,  from  time 
to  time.  Below  that  fire,  below  the  gloomy  balustrade  with 
its  trefoils  showing  darkly  against  its  glare,  two  spouts  with 


214  NOTRE-DAME. 

monster  throats  were  vomiting  forth  unceasingly  that  burning 
rain,  whose  silvery  stream  stood  out  against  the  shadows  of 
the  lower  fa9ade.  As  they  approached  the  earth,  these  two 
jets  of  liquid  lead  spread  out  in  sheaves,  like  water  springing 
from  the  thousand  holes  of  a  watering-pot.  Above  the  flame, 
the  enormous  towers,  two  sides  of  each  of  which  were  visible 
in  sharp  outline,  the  one  wholly  black,  the  other  wholly  red, 
seemed  still  more  vast  with  all  the  immensity  of  the  shadow 
which  they  cast  even  to  the  sky. 

Their  innumerable  sculptures  of  demons  and  dragons  as- 
sumed a  lugubrious  aspect.  The  restless  light  of  the  flame 
made  them  move  to  the  eye.  There  were  griffins  which  had 
the  air  of  laughing,  gargogles  which  one  fancied  one  heard 
yelping,  salamanders  which  puffed  at  the  fire,  tarasques* 
which  sneezed  in  the  smoke.  And  among  the  monsters  thus 
roused  from  their  sleep  of  stone  by  this  flame,  by  this  noise, 
there  was  one  who  walked  about,  and  who  was  seen,  from 
time  to  time,  to  pass  across  the  glowing  face  of  the  pile,  like 
a  bat  in  front  of  a  candle. 

Without  doubt,  this  strange  beacon  light  would  awaken  far 
away,  the  woodcutter  of  the  hills  of  Bicetre,  terrified  to  be- 
hold the  gigantic  shadow  of  the  towers  of  Notre-Dame  quiver- 
ing over  his  heaths. 

A  terrified  silence  ensued  among  the  outcasts,  during  which 
nothing  was  heard,  but  the  cries  of  alarm  of  the  canons  shut 
up  in  their  cloister,  and  more  uneasy  than  horses  in  a  burning 
stable,  the  furtive  sound  of  windows  hastily  opened  and  still 
more  hastily  closed,  the  internal  hurly-burly  of  the  houses  and 
of  the  Hotel-Dieu,  the  wind  in  the  flame,  the  last  death-rattle 
of  the  dying,  and  the  continued  crackling  of  the  rain  of  lead 
upon  the  pavement. 

In  the  meanwhile,  the  principal  vagabonds  had  retired  be 
neath  the  porch  of  the  Gondelaurier  mansion,  and  were  h>old 
ing  a  council  of  Avar. 

The  Duke  of  Egypt,  seated  on  a  stone  post,  contemplated 
the  phantasmagorical  bonfire,  glowing  at  a  height  of  two  hun- 

*The  representation  of  a  monstrous  animal  solemnly  drawn  about  iu 
Tarascon  and  other  French  towns. 


AN  AWKWARD   FRIEND. 


215 


dred  feet  in  the  air,  with  religious  terror.     Clopin  Trouillefou 
bit  his  huge  fists  with  rage. 

" Impossible  to  get  in  I"  he  muttered  between  his  teeth. 

"  An  old,  enchanted  church  !  "  grumbled  the  aged  Bohemian 
Mathias  Hungadi  Spicali. 

"  By  the  Pope's  whiskers  !  "  went  on  a  sham  soldier,  who  had 
once  been  in  service,  "  here  are  church  gutters  spitting  melted 
lead  at  you  better  than  the  machicolations  of  Lectoure." 

"  Do  you  see  that  demon  passing  and  repassing  in  front  of 
the  fire  ?  "  exclaimed  the  Duke  of  Egypt. 

"Pardieu,  'tis  that  damned  bellringer,  'tis  Quasimodo," 
said  Clopin. 

The  Bohemian  tossed  his  head.  "  I  tell  you,  that  'tis  the 
spirit  Sabnac,  the  grand  marquis,  the  demon  of  fortifications. 
He  has  the  form  of  an  armed  soldier,  the  head  of  a  lion. 
Sometimes  he  rides  a  hideous  horse.  He  changes  men  into 
stones,  of  which  he  builds  towers.  He  commands  fifty  legions 
'Tis  he  indeed ;  I  recognize  him.  Sometimes  he  is  clad  in  a 
handsome  golden  robe,  figured  after  the  Turkish  fashion." 

"  Where  is  Bellevigne  de  1'  Etoile  ?  "  demanded  Clopin. 

"He  is  dead." 

Andry  the  Eed  laughed  in  an  idiotic  way:  "Notre-Dame 
is  making  work  for  the  hospital,"  said  he. 

"  Is  there,  then,  no  way  of  forcing  this  door,"  exclaimed  the 
King  of  Thunes,  stamping  his  foot. 

The  Duke  of  Egypt  pointed  sadly  to  the  two  streams  of 
boiling  lead  which  did  not  cease  to  streak  the  black  facade, 
like  two  long  distaffs  of  phosphorus. 

"  Churches  have  been  known  to  defend  themselves  thus  all 
by  themselves,"  he  remarked  with  a  sigh.  "  Saint-Sophia  at 
Constantinople,  forty  years  ago,  hurled  to  the  earth  three 
times  in  succession,  the  crescent  of  Mahom,  by  shaking  her 
domes,  which  are  her  heads.  Guillaume  de  Paris,  who  built 
this  one  was  a  magician." 

"  Must  Ave  then  retreat  in  pitiful  fashion,  like  highway- 
men ?  "  said  Clopin.  "  Must  we  leave  our  sister  here,  whom 
those  hooded  wolves  will  hang  to-morrow." 

"  And  the  sacristy,  where  there  are  wagon-loads  of  gold  ! " 


216  NOTRE-DAME. 

added  a  vagabond,  whose  name,  we  regret  to  say,  we  do  not 
know. 

"  Beard  of  Mahom  !  "  cried  Trouillef  on. 

"  Let  us  make  another  trial,"  resumed  the  vagabond. 

Mathias  Hungadi  shook  his  head. 

"  We  shall  never  get  in  by  the  door.  We  must  find  the 
defect  in  the  armor  of  the  old  fairy ;  a  hole,  a  false  postern, 
some  joint  or  other." 

"  Who  will  go  with  me  ?  "  said  Clopin.  "  I  shall  go  at  it 
again.  By  the  way,  where  is  the  little  scholar  Jehan,  who 
is  so  encased  in  iron  ?  " 

"He  is  dead,  no  doubt,"  some  one  replied;  "we  no  longer 
hear  his  laugh." 

The  King  of  Thunes  frowned :  "  So  much  the  worse. 
There  was  a  brave  heart  under  that  ironmongery.  And  .Mas- 
ter Pierre  Gringoire  ?  " 

"Captain  Clopin,"  said  Andry  the  Red,  "he  slipped  away 
before  we  reached  the  Pont-aux-Changeurs," 

Clopin  stamped  his  foot.  "  Giieule-Dleu !  'twas  he  who 
pushed  us  on  hither,  and  he  has  deserted  us  in  the  very  middle 
of  the  job  !  Cowardly  chatterer,  with  a  slipper  for  a  helmet !  " 

"Captain  Clopin,"  said  Andry  the  Red,  who  was  gazing 
down  Rue  du  Parvis,  "yonder  is  the  little  scholar." 

"  Praised  be  Pluto ! "  said  Clopin.  "  But  what  the  devil  is 
he  dragging  after  him  ?  " 

It  was,  in  fact,  Jehan,  who  was  running  as  fast  as  his  heavy 
outfit  of  a  Paladin,  and  a  long  ladder  which  trailed  on  the 
pavement,  would  permit,  more  breathless  than  an  ant  har- 
nessed to  a  blade  of  grass  twenty  times  longer  than  itself. 

"  Victory  !  Te  Deum !  "  cried  the  scholar.  "  Here  is  the 
/adder  of  the  longshoremen  of  Port  Saint-Landry." 

Clopin  approached  him. 

"Child,  what  do  you  mean  to  do,  corne-dieu !  with  this 
ladder  ?  " 

"  I  have  it,"  replied  Jehan,  panting.  "  I  knew  where  it  was 
under  the  shed  of  the  lieutenant's  house.  There's  a  wi-ndi 
there  whom  I  know,  who  thinks  me  as  handsome  as  Cupido. 
I  made  use  of  her  to  get  the  ladder,  and  I  have  the  ladder, 


AN  AWKWARD  FRIEND.  217 

Pasque-Maliom!  The  poor  girl  came  to  open  the  door  to  me 
in  her  shift." 

"Yes,"  said  Clopin,  "but  what  are  you  going  to  do  with 
that  ladder  ?  " 

Jehan  gazed  at  him  with  a  malicious,  knowing  look,  and 
cracked  his  lingers  like  castanets.  At  that  moment  he  was 
sublime.  On  his  head  he  wore  one  of  those  overloaded  hel- 
mets of  the  fifteenth  century,  which  frightened  the  enemy 
with  their  fanciful  crests.  His  bristled  with  ten  iron  beaks, 
so  that  Jehan  could  have  disputed  with  Nestor's  Homeric 
vessel  the  redoubtable  title  of  dexe/nGoios. 

"  What  do  I  mean  to  do  with  it,  august  king  of  Thunes  ? 
Do  you  see  that  row  of  statues  which  have  such  idiotic 
expressions,  yonder,  above  the  three  portals  ?  " 

"  Yes.     Well  ?  " 

"  Tis  the  gallery  of  the  kings  of  France." 

"  What  is  that  to  me  ?  "  said  Clopin. 

"  Wait !  At  the  end  of  that  gallery  there  is  a  door  which  is 
never  fastened  otherwise  than  with  a  latch,  and  with  this 
ladder  I  ascend,  and  I  am  in  the  church." 

"  Child,  let  me  be  the  first  to  ascend." 

"  No,  comrade,  the  ladder  is  mine.  Come,  you  shall  be  the 
second." 

"  May  Beelzebub  strangle  you  ! "  said  surly  Clopin,  "  I 
won't  be  second  to  anybody." 

"  Then  find  a  ladder,  Clopin  !  " 

Jehan  set  out  on  a  run  across  the  Place,  dragging  his  lad- 
der and  shouting  :  "  Follow  me,  lads  !  " 

In  an  instant  the  ladder  was  raised,  and  propped  against 
the  balustrade  of  the  lower  gallery,  above  one  of  the  lateral 
doors.  The  throng  of  vagabonds,  uttering  loud  acclamations, 
crowded  to  its  foot  to  ascend.  But  Jehan  maintained  his 
right,  and  was  the  first  to -set  foot  on  the  rungs.  The  pas- 
sage was  tolerably  long.  The  gallery  of  the  kings  of  France 
is  to-day  about  sixty  feet  above  the  pavement.  The  eleven 
steps  of  the  flight  before  the  door,  made  it  still  higher. 
Jehan  mounted'  slowly,  a  good  deal  incommoded  by  his 
heavy  armor,  holding  his  crossbow  in  one  hand,  and  clinging 


218  NOTRE-DAME. 

to  a  rung  with  the  other.  When  he  reached  the  middle  of 
the  ladder,  he  cast  a  melancholy  glance  at  the  poor  dead  out- 
casts, with  which  the  steps  were  strewn.  "  Alas  ! "  said  he, 
"  here  is  a  heap  of  bodies  worthy  of  the  fifth  book  of  the 
Iliad ! "  Then  he  continued  his  ascent.  The  vagabonds  fol- 
lowed him.  There  was  one  on  every  rung.  At  the  sight  of 
this  line  of  cuirassed  backs,  undulating  as  they  rose  through 
the  gloom,  one  would  have  pronounced  it  a  serpent  with  steel 
scales,  which  was  raising  itself  erect  in  front  of  the  church. 
Jehan  who  formed  the  head,  and  who  was  whistling,  com- 
pleted the  illusion. 

The  scholar  finally  reached  the  balcony  of  the  gallery,  and 
climbed  over  it  nimbly,  to  the  applause  of  the  whole  vagabond 
tribe.  Thus  master  of  the  citadel,  he  uttered  a  shout  of  joy, 
and  suddenly  halted,  petrified.  He  had  just  caught  sight  of 
Quasimodo  concealed  in  the  dark,  with  flashing  eye,  behind 
one  of  the  statues  of  the  kings. 

Before  a  second  assailant  could  gain  a  foothold  on  the  gal- 
lery, the  formidable  hunchback  leaped  to  the  head  of  the 
ladder,  without  uttering  a  word,  seized  the  ends  of  the  two 
uprights  with  his  powerful  hands,  raised  them,  pushed  them 
out  from  the  wall,  balanced  the  long  and  pliant  ladder,  loaded 
with  vagabonds  from  top  to  bottom  for  a  moment,  in  the 
midst  of  shrieks  of  anguish,  then  suddenly,  with  superhuman 
force,  hurled  this  cluster  of  men  backward  into  the  Place. 
There  was  a  moment  when  even  the  most  resolute  trembled. 
The  ladder,  launched  backwards,  remained  erect  and  standing 
for  an  instant,  and  seemed  to  hesitate,  then  wavered,  then 
suddenly,  describing  a  frightful  arc  of  a  circle  eighty  feet  in 
radius,  crashed  upon  the  pavement  with  its  load  of  ruffians, 
more  rapidly  than  a  drawbridge  when  its  chains  break. 
There  arose  an  immense  imprecation,  then  all  was  still, 
and  a  few  mutilated  wretches  were  seen,  crawling  over  the 
heap  of  dead. 

A  sound  of  wrath  and  grief  followed  the  first  cries  of  tri- 
umph among  the  besiegers.  Quasimodo,  impassive,  with  both 
elbows  propped  on  the  balustrade,  looked  on.  He  had  the 
air  of  an  old,  bushy-headed  king  at  his  window. 


AN  AWKWAED  FRIEND.  219 

As  for  Jehan  Frollo,  he  was  in  a  critical  position.  He 
found  himself  in  the  gallery  with  the  formidable  bellringer, 
alone,  separated  from  his  companions  by  a  vertical  wall 
eighty  feet  high.  While  Quasimodo  was  dealing  with  the 
ladder,  the  scholar  had  run  to  the  postern  which  he  believed 
to  be  open.  It  was  not.  The  deaf  man  had  closed  it  behind 
him  when  he  entered  the  gallery.  Jehan  had  then  concealed 
himself  behind  a  stone  king,  not  daring  to  breathe,  and  fixing 
upon  the  monstrous  hunchback  a  frightened  gaze,  like  the 
man,  who,  when  courting  the  wife  of  the  guardian  of  a 
menagerie,  went  one  evening  to  a  love  rendezvous,  mistook 
the  wall  which  he  was  to  climb,  and  suddenly  found  himself 
face  to  face  with  a  white  bear. 

For  the  first  few  moments,  the  deaf  man  paid  no  heed  to 
him  ;  but  at  last  he  turned  his  head,  and  suddenly  straight- 
ened up.  He  had  just  caught  sight  of  the  scholar. 

Jehan  prepared  himself  for  a  rough  shock,  but  the  deaf 
man  remained  motionless ;  only  he  had  turned  towards  the 
scholar  and  was  looking  at  him. 

"  Ho  !  ho  ! "  said  Jehan,  "  what  do  you  mean  by  staring  at 
me  with  that  solitary  and  melancholy  eye  ?  " 

As  he  spoke  thus,  the  young  scamp  stealthily  adjusted  his 
crossbow. 

"  Quasimodo  ! "  he  cried,  "  I  am  going  to  change  your  sur- 
name :  you  shall  be  called  the  blind  man." 

The  shot  sped.  The  feathered  vireton  *  whizzed  and  entered 
the  hunchback's  left  arm.  Quasimodo  appeared  no  more 
moved  by  it  than  by  a  scratch  to  King  Pharamond.  He  laid  his 
hand  on  the  arrow,  tore  it  from  his  arm,  and  tranquilly  broke  it 
across  his  big  knee  ;  then  he  let  the  two  pieces  drop  on  the  floor, 
rather  than  threw  them  down.  But  Jehan  had  no  opportunity 
to  fire  a  second  time.  The  arrow  broken,  Quasimodo  breathing 
heavily,  bounded  like  a  grasshopper,  and  he  fell  upon  the 
scholar,  whose  armor  was  flattened  against  the  wall  by  the  blow. 

Then  in  that  gloom,  wherein  wavered  the  light  of  the 
torches,  a  terrible  thing  was  seen. 

*  An  arrow  with  a  pyramidal  head  of  iron  and  copper  spiral  wings  by 
which  a  rotatory  motion  was  communicated. 


220  NOTRE-DAME. 

Quasimodo  had  grasped  with  his  left  hand  the  two  arms  of 
Jehan,  who  did  not  offer  any  resistance,  so  thoroughly  did  he 
feel  that  he  was  lost.  With  his  right  hand,  the  deaf  man 
detached  one  by  one,  in  silence,  with  sinister  slowness,  all  the 
pieces  of  his  armor,  the  sword,  the  daggers,  the  helmet,  the 
cuirass,  the  leg  pieces.  One  would  have  said  that  it  was  a 
monkey  taking  the  shell  from  a  nut.  Quasimodo  flung  the 
scholar's  iron  shell  at  his  feet,  piece  by  piece. 

When  the  scholar  beheld  himself  disarmed,  stripped,  weak. 
and  naked  in  those  terrible  hands,  he  made  no  attempt  to 
speak  to  the  deaf  man,  but  began  to  laugh  audaciously  in  his 
face,  and  to  sing  with  his  intrepid  heedlessness  of  a  child  of 
sixteen,  the  then  popular  ditty  :  — 

"Elle  est  bien  habillee, 
La  ville  de  Cambrai; 
Marafin  1'a  pillee.  .  .  ."* 

He  did  not  finish.  Quasimodo  was  seen  on  the  parapet  of 
the  gallery,  holding  the  scholar  by  the  feet  with  one  hand 
and  whirling  him  over  the  abyss  like  a  sling ;  then  a  soum "i 
like  that  of  a  bony  structure  in  contact  with  a  wall  was 
heard,  and  something  was  seen  to  fall  which  halted  a  third 
of  the  way  down  in  its  fall,  on  a  projection  in  the  architect- 
ure. It  was  a  dead  body  which  remained  hanging  there,  bent 
double,  its  loins  broken,  its  skull  empty. 

A  cry  of  horror  rose  among  the  vagabonds. 

"Vengeance!"  shouted  Clopin.  "To  the  sack!"  replied 
the  multitude.  "Assault !  assault !  " 

There  came  a  tremendous  howl,  in  which  were  mingled 
all  tongues,  all  dialects,  all  accents.  The  death  of  the  poor 
scholar  imparted  a  furious  ardor  to  that  crowd.  It  was  seized 
with  shame,  and  the  wrath  of  having  been  held  so  long  in 
check  before  a  church  by  a  hunchback.  Eage  found  ladders, 
multiplied  the  torches,  and.  at  the  expiration  of  a  few  minutes. 
Quasimodo,  in  despair,  beheld  that  terrible  ant  heap  mount  on 
all  sides  to  the  assault  of  Xotre-Pame.  Those  who  had  no 
ladders  had  knotted  ropes ;  those  who  had  no  ropes  climbed 

*  The  city  of  Cambrai  is  well  dressed.     Marafin  plundered  it. 


AN  AWKWARD  FRIEND.  221 

by  the  projections  of  the  carvings.  They  hung  from  each 
other's  rags.  There  were  no  means  of  resisting  that  rising 
tide  of  frightful  faces ;  rage  made  these  fierce  countenances 
ruddy ;  their  clayey  brows  were  dripping  with  sweat ;  their 
eyes  darted  lightnings ;  all  these  grimaces,  all  these  horrors 
laid  siege  to  Quasimodo.  One  would  have  said  that  some 
other  church  had  despatched  to  the  assault  of  Xotre-Dame  its 
gorgons,  its  dogs,  its  drees,  its  demons,  its  most  fantastic 
sculptures.  It  was  like  a  layer  of  living  monsters  on  the 
stone  monsters  of  the  facade. 

Meanwhile,  the  Place  was  studded  with  a  thousand  torches. 
This  scene  of  confusion,  till  now  hid  in  darkness,  was  sud- 
denly flooded  with  light.  The  parvis  was  resplendent,  and 
cast  a  radiance  on  the  sky ;  the  bonfire  lighted  on  the  lofty 
platform  was  still  burning,  and  illuminated  the  city  far  away. 
The  enormous  silhouette  of  the  two  towers,  projected  afar  on 
the  roofs  of  Paris,  and  formed  a  large  notch  of  black  in  this 
light.  The  city  seemed  to  be  aroused.  Alarm  bells  Availed  in 
the  distance.  The  vagabonds  howled,  panted,  swore,  climbed ; 
and  Quasimodo,  powerless  against  so  many  enemies,  shudder- 
ing for  the  gypsy,  beholding  the  furious  faces  approaching 
ever  nearer  and  nearer  to  his  gallery,  entreated  heaven  for  a 
miracle,  and  wrung  his  arms  in  despair. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE   RETREAT   IN   WHICH    MONSIEUR    LOUIS    OF    FRANCE    SAYS 
HIS    PRAYERS. 

THE  reader  has  not,  perhaps,  forgotten  that  one  moment 
before  catching  sight  of  the  nocturnal  band  of  vagabonds, 
Quasimodo,  as  he  inspected  Paris  from  the  heights  of  his  bell 
tower,  perceived  only  one  light  burning,  which  gleamed  like  a 
star  from  a  window  on  the  topmost  story  of  a  lofty  edifice 
beside  the  Porte  Saint- Antoine.  This  edifice  was  the  Bastille. 
That  star  was  the  candle  of  Louis  XI. 

King  Louis  XI.  had,  in  fact,  been  two  days  in  Paris.  He 
was  to  take  his  departure  on  the  next  day  but  one  for  his  cit- 
adel of  Montilz-les-Tours.  He  made  but  seldom  and  brief 
appearance  in  his  good  city  of  Paris,  since  there  he  did  not 
feel  about  him  enough  pitfalls,  gibbets,  and  Scotch  archers. 

He  had  come,  that  day,  to  sleep  at  the  Bastille.  The  great 
chamber  five  toises  *  square,  which  he  had  at  the  Louvre,  with 
its  huge  chimney-piece  loaded  with  twelve  great  beasts  and 
thirteen  great  prophets,  and  his  grand  bed,  eleven  feet  by 
twelve,  pleased  him  but  little.  He  felt  himself  lost  amid  all 
this  grandeur.  This  good  bourgeois  king  preferred  the  Bas- 
tille with  a  tiny  chamber  and  couch.  And  then,  the  Bastille 
was  stronger  than  the  Louvre. 

This  little  chamber,  which  the  king  reserved  for  himself  in 
the  famous  state  prison,  was  also  tolerably  spacious  and  occu- 

*An  ancient  long  measure  in  France,  containing  six  feet  and  nearly 
five  inches  English  measure. 

222 


MONSIEUR   LOUIS   SAYS  HIS  PRATEES.  223 

pied  the  topmost  story  of  a  turret  rising  from  the  donjon 
keep.  It  was  circular  in  form,  carpeted  with  mats  of  shining 
straw,  ceiled  with  beams,  enriched  with  fleurs-de-lis  of  gilded 
metal  with  interjoists  in  color;  wainscoated  with  rich  woods 
sown  with  rosettes  of  white  metal,  and  with  others  painted  a 
tine,  bright  green,  made  of  orpiment  and  fine  indigo. 

There  was  only  one  window,  a  long  pointed  casement,  latticed 
with  brass  wire  and  bars  of  iron,  further  darkened  by  fine 
colored  panes  with  the  arms  of  the  king  and  of  the  queen, 
each  pane  being  worth  two  and  twenty  sols. 

There  was  but  one  entrance,  a  modern  door,  with  a  flat  arch, 
garnished  with  a  piece  of  tapestry  on  the  inside,  and  on  the 
outside  by  one  of  those  porches  of  Irish  wood,  frail  edifices 
of  cabinet-work  curiously  wrought,  numbers  of  which  were 
still  to  be  seen  in  old  houses  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago. 
'•  Although  they  disfigure  and  embarrass  the  places,"  says 
Sauvel  in  despair,  "  our  old  people  are  still  unwilling  to  get 
rid  of  them,  and  keep  them  in  spite  of  everybody." 

In  this  chamber,  nothing  was  to  be  found  of  what  furnishes 
ordinary  apartments,  neither  benches,  nor  trestles,  nor  forms, 
nor  common  stools  in  the  form  of  a  chest,  nor  fine  stools  sus- 
tained by  pillars  and  counter-pillars,  at  four  sols  a  piece.  Only 
one  easy  arm-chair,  very  magnificent,  was  to  be  seen ;  the 
wood  was  painted  with  roses  on  a  red  ground,  the  seat  was  of 
ruby  Cordovan  leather,  ornamented  with  long  silken  fringes, 
and  studded  with  a  thousand  golden  nails.  The  loneliness  of 
this  chair  made  it  apparent  that  only  one  person  had  a  right 
to  sit  down  in  this  apartment.  Beside  the  chair,  and  quite 
close  to  the  window,  there  was  a  table  covered  with  a  cloth 
with  a  pattern  of  birds.  On  this  table  stood  an  inkhorn 
spotted  with  ink,  some  parchments,  several  pens,  and  a  large 
goblet  of  chased  silver.  A  little  further  on  was  a  brazier, 
a  praying  stool  in  crimson  velvet,  relieved  with  small  bosses 
of  gold.  Finally,  at  the  extreme  end  of  the  room,  a  simple 
bed  of  scarlet  and  yellow  damask,  without  either  tinsel  or 
lace  ;  having  only  an  ordinary  fringe.  This  bed,  famous  for 
having  borne  the  sleep  or  the  sleeplessness  of  Louis  XI.,  was 
still  to  be  seen  two  hundred  years  ago,  at  the  house  of  a 


224  NOTRE-DANE. 

ccmncillor  of  state,  where  it  was  seen  by  old  Madame  Pilou. 
celebrated  in  Cyrus  under  the  name  Arricidie  and  of  la  Morale 
Vivante. 

Such  was  the  chamber  which  was  called  "  the  retreat  where 
Monsieur  Louis  de  France  says  his  prayers." 

At  the  moment  when  we  have  introduced  the  reader  into  it, 
this  retreat  was  very  dark.  The  curfew  bell  had  sounded  an 
hour  before  ;  night  was  come,  and  there  was  only  one  flickering 
wax  candle  set  on  the  table  to  light  five  persons  variously 
grouped  in  the  chamber. 

The  first  on  which  the  light  fell  was  a  seigneur  superbly 
clad  in  breeches  and  jerkin  of  scarlet  striped  with  silver,  and 
a  loose  coat  with  half  sleeves  of  cloth  of  gold  with  black 
figures.  This  splendid  costume,  on  which  the  light  played. 
seemed  glazed  with  flame  on  every  fold.  The  man  who  wore 
it  had  his  armorial  bearings  embroidered  on  his  breast  in  vivid 
colors ;  a  chevron  accompanied  by  a  deer  passant.  The  shield 
was  flanked,  on  the  right  by  an  olive  branch,  on  the  left  by  a 
deer's  antlers.  This  man  wore  in  his  girdle  a  rich  dagger 
whose  hilt,  of  silver  gilt,  was  chased  in  the  form  of  a  helmet, 
and  surmounted  by  a  count's  coronet.  He  had  a  forbidding 
air,  a  proud  mien,  and  a  head  held  high.  At  the  first  glance 
one  read  arrogance  on  his  visage ;  at  the  second,  craft. 

He  was  standing  bareheaded,  a  long  roll  of  parchment  in 
his  hand,  behind  the  arm-chair  in  which  was  seated,  his  body 
ungracefully  doubled  up,  his  knees  crossed,  his  elbow  on  the 
table,  a  very  badly  accoutred  personage.  Let  the  reader  imag- 
ine in  fact,  on  the  rich  seat  of  Cordova  leather,  two  crooked 
knees,  two  thin  thighs,  poorly  clad  in  black  worsted  tricot, 
a  body  enveloped  in  a  cloak  of  fustian,  with  fur  trimming 
of  which  more  leather  than  hair  was  visible ;  lastly,  to  crown 
all,  a  greasy  old  hat  of  the  worst  sort  of  black  cloth,  bordered 
with  a  circular  string  of  leaden  figures.  This,  in  company  with 
a  dirty  skull-cap,  which  hardly  allowed  a  hair  to  escape,  was 
all  that  distinguished  the  seated  personage.  He  held  his  head 
so  bent  upon  his  breast,  that  nothing  was  to  be  seen  of  his 
face  thus  thrown  into  shadow,  except  the  tip  of  his  nose,  upon 
which  fell  a  ray  of  light,  and  which  must  have  been  long. 


MONSIEUR  LOUIS  SAYS  HIS  PEAYEES.  225 

From  the  thinness  of  his  wrinkled  hand,  one  divined  that  he 
was  an  old  man.  It  was  Louis  XI. 

At  some  distance  behind  them,  two  men  dressed  in  garments 
of  Flemish  style  were  conversing,  who  were  not  sufficiently 
lost  in  the  shadow  to  prevent  any  one  who  had  been  present 
at  the  performance  of  Gringoire's  mystery  from  recognizing  in 
them  two  of  the  principal  Flemish  envoys,  Guillaume  Rym, 
the  sagacious  pensioner  of  Ghent,  and  Jacques  Coppenole,  the 
popular  hosier.  The  reader  will  remember  that  these  men 
were  mixed  up  in  the  secret  politics  of  Louis  XI. 

Finally,  quite  at  the  end  of  the  room,  near  the  door,  in  the 
dark,  stood,  motionless  as  a  statue,  a  vigorous  man  with  thick- 
set limbs,  a  military  harness,  with  a  surcoat  of  armorial  bear- 
ings, whose  square  face  pierced  with  staring  eyes,  slit  with  an 
immense  mouth,  his  ears  concealed  by  two  large  screens  of 
ftat  hair,  had  something  about  it  both  of  the  dog  and  the  tiger. 

All  were  uncovered  except  the  king. 

The  gentleman  who  stood  near  the  king  was  reading  him  a 
sort  of  long  memorial  to  which  his  majesty  seemed  to  be  lis- 
tening attentively.  The  two  Flemings  were  whispering  to- 
gether. 

"  Cross  of  God ! "  grumbled  Coppenole,  "  I  am  tired  of 
standing ;  is  there  no  chair  here  ?  " 

Rym  replied  by  a  negative  gesture,  accompanied  by  a  dis- 
creet smile. 

"  Croix-Dieu !  "  resumed  Coppenole,  thoroughly  unhappy  at 
being  obliged  to  lower  his  voice  thus,  "  I  should  like  to  sit 
down  on  the  floor,  with  my  legs  crossed,  like  a  hosier,  as  I  do 
in  my  shop." 

"  Take  good  care  that  you  do  not,  Master  Jacques." 

"  Ouais !  Master  Guillaume  !  can  one  only  remain  here  on 
his  feet  ?  " 

"  Or  on  his  knees,"  said  Rym. 

At  that  moment  the  king's  voice  was  uplifted.  They  held 
their  peace. 

"  Fifty  sols  for  the  robes  of  our  valets,  and  twelve  livres  for 
the  mantles  of  the  clerks  of  our  crown  !  That's  it !  Pour  out 
gold  by  the  ton  !  Are  you  mad,  Olivier  ?  " 


226  NOTRE-DAME. 

As  he  spoke  thus,  the  old  man  raised  his  head.  The  golden 
shells  of  the  collar  of  Saint-Michael  could  be  seen  gleaming  on 
his  neck.  The  candle  fully  illuminated  his  gaunt  and  morose 
profile.  He  tore  the  papers  from  the  other's  hand. 

"  You  are  ruining  us ! "  he  cried,  casting  his  hollow  eyes 
over  the  scroll.  "  What  is  all  this  ?  What  need  have  we  of  so 
prodigious  a  household  ?  Two  chaplains  at  ten  livres  a  month 
each,  and  a  chapel  clerk  at  one  hundred  sols  !  A  valet-de- 
chambre  at  ninety  livres  a  year.  Four  head  cooks  at  six  score 
livres  a  year  each!  A  spit-cook,  an  herb-cook,  a  sauce-cook,  a 
butler,  two  sumpter-horse  lackeys,  at  ten  livres  a  month 
each  !  Two  scullions  at  eight  livres  !  A  groom  of  the  stables 
and  his  two  aids  at  four  and  twenty  livres  a  month !  A  por- 
ter, a  pastry-cook,  a  baker,  two  carters,  each  sixty  livres  a  year ! 
And  the  farrier  six  score  livres !  And  the  master  of  the 
chamber  of  our  funds,  twelve  hundred  livres  !  And  the  comp- 
troller five  hundred.  And  how  do  I  know  what  else  ?  'Tis 
ruinous.  The  wages  of  our  servants  are  putting  France  to 
the  pillage !  All  the  ingots  of  the  Louvre  will  melt  before 
such  a  fire  of  expenses !  We  shall  have  to  sell  our  plate  ! 
And  next  year,  if  God  and  our  Lady  (here  he  raised  his  hat) 
lend  us  life,  we  shall  drink  our  potions  from  a  pewter  pot ! " 

So  saying,  he  cast  a  glance  at  the  silver  goblet  which 
gleamed  upon  the  table.  He  coughed  and  continued,  — 

"  Master  Olivier,  the  princes  who  reign  over  great  lordships, 
like  kings  and  emperors,  should  not  allow  sumptuousness  in 
their  houses  ;  for  the  fire  spreads  thence  through  the  province. 
Hence,  Master  Olivier,  consider  this  said  once  for  all.  Our 
expenditure  increases  every  year.  The  thing  displease  us. 
How,  pasque-Dieu!  when  in  '79  it  did  not  exceed  six  and 
thirty  thousand  livres,  did  it  attain  in  '80,  forty-three  thousand 
six  hundred  and  nineteen  livres  ?  I  have  the  figures  in  my 
head.  In  '81,  sixty-six  thousand  six  hundred  and  eighty  livres, 
and  this  year,  by  the  faith  of  my  body,  it  will  reach  eighty 
thousand  livres  !  Doubled  in  four  years  !  Monstrous  !  " 

He  paused  breathless,  then  resumed  energetically,  — 

"  I  behold  around  me  only  people  who  fatten  on  my  lean- 
ness !  you  suck  crowns  from  me  at  every  pore  ! " 


MONSIEUR   LOUIS  SAYS  HIS  PRAYERS.  227 

All  remained  silent.  This  was  one  of  those  fits  of  wrath 
which  are  allowed  to  take  their  course.  He  continued, — 

"  Tis  like  that  request  in  Latin  from  the  gentlemen  of 
France,  that  we  should  re-establish  Avhat  they  call  the  grand 
charges  of  the  Crown !  Charges  in  very  deed  !  Charges  which 
crush !  Ah !  gentlemen !  you  say  that  we  are  not  a  king  to 
reign  dapifero  nullo,  buticulario  nullo  !  We  will  let  you  see, 
pasque-Dieu  !  whether  we  are  not  a  king ! " 

Here  he  smiled,  in  the  consciousness  of  his  power ;  this 
softened  his  bad  humor,  and  he  turned  towards  the  Flemings, — 

"Do  you  see,  Gossip  Guillaume  ?  the  grand  warden  of  the 
keys,  the  grand  butler,  the  grand  chamberlain,  the  grand 
seneschal  are  not  worth  the  smallest  valet.  Eembember  this, 
Gossip  Coppenole.  They  serve  no  purpose,  as  they  stand  thus 
useless  round  the  king ;  they  produce  upon  me  the  effect  of  the 
four  Evangelists  who  surround  the  face  of  the  big  clock  of  the 
palace,  and  which  Philippe  Brille  has  just  set  in  order  afresh. 
They  are  gilt,  but  they  do  not  indicate  the  hour ;  and  the 
hands  can  get  on  without  them." 

He  remained  in  thought  for  a  moment,  then  added,  shaking 
his  aged  head,  — 

"  Ho !  ho !  by  our  Lady,  I  am  not  Philippe  Brille,  and  I 
shall  not  gild  the  great  v.assals  anew.  Continue,  Olivier." 

The  person  whom  he  designated  by  this  name,  took  the 
papers  into  his  hands  again,  and  began  to  read  aloud,  — 

"  To  Adam  Tenon,  clerk  of  the  warden  of  the  seals  of  the 
provostship  of  Paris ;  for  the  silver,  making,  «and  engraving 
of  said  seals,  Avhich  have  been  made  new  because  the  others 
preceding,  by  reason  of  their  antiquity  and  their  worn  condi- 
tion, could  no  longer  be  successfully  used,  twelve  livres  parisis. 

"  To  Guillaume  Frere,  the  sum  of  four  livres,  four  sols  par- 
isis, for  his  trouble  and  salary,  for  having  nourished  and  fed 
the  doves .  in  the  two  dove-cots  of  the  Hotel  des  Tournelles, 
during  the  months  of  January,  February,  and  March  of  this 
year ;  and  for  this  he  hath  given  seven  sextiers  of  barley. 

"To  a  gray  friar  for  confessing  a  criminal,  four  sols 
parisis." 

The    king    listened    in    silence.      From   time   to   time   he 


228  NOTRE-DAME. 

coughed;  then  he  raised  the  goblet  to  his  lips  and  drank  a 
draught  with  a  grimace. 

•'  During  this  year  there  have  been  made  by  the  ordinance 
of  justice,  to  the  sound  of  the  trumpet,  through  the  squares  of 
LJaris,  fifty-six  proclamations.  Account  to  be  regulated. 

"For  having  searched  and  ransacked  in  certain  places,  in 
Paris  as  well  as  elsewhere,  for  money  said  to  be  there  con- 
cealed ;  but  nothing  hath  been  found :  forty-five  livres  parisis." 

"  Bury  a  crown  to  unearth  a  sou !  "  said  the  king. 

" .  .  .  For  having  set  in  the  Hotel  des  Tournelles  six  panes 
of  white  glass  in  the  place  where  the  iron  cage  is,  thirteen 
sols ;  for  having  made  and  delivered  by  command  of  the  king, 
on  the  day  of  the  musters,  four  shields  with  the  escutcheons  of 
the  said  seigneur,  encircled  with  garlands  of  roses  all  about, 
six  livres ;  for  two  new  sleeves  to  the  king's  old  doublet, 
twenty  sols ;  for  a  box  of  grease  to  grease  the  boots  of  the 
king,  fifteen  deniers ;  a  stable  newly  made  to  lodge  the  king's 
black  pigs,  thirty  livres  parisis ;  many  partitions,  planks,  and 
trap-doors,  for  the  safekeeping  of  the  lions  at  Saint-Paul, 
twenty-two  livres." 

"  These  be  dear  beasts,"  said  Louis  XI.  "  It  matters  not ;  it 
is  a  fine  magnificence  in  a  king.  There  is  a  great  red  lion 
whom  I  love  for  his  pleasant  ways.  Have  you  seen  him,  Mas- 
ter Guillaume  ?  Princes  must  have  these  terrific  animals  ;  for 
we  kings  must  have  lions  for  our  dogs  and  tigers  for  our  cats. 
The  great  befits  a  crown.  In  the  days  of  the  pagans  of  Jupi- 
ter, when  the  people  offered  the  temples  a  hundred  oxen  and  a 
hundred  sheep,  the  emperors  gave  a  hundred  lions  and  a  hun- 
dred eagles.  This  was  wild  and  very  fine.  The  kings  of 
France  have  always  had  roarings  round  their  throne.  Never- 
theless, people  must  do  me  this  justice,  that  I  spend  still  less 
money  on  it  than  they  did,  and  that  I  possess  a  greater  mod- 
esty of  lions,  bears,  elephants,  and  leopards.  —  Go  on,  Master 
Olivier.  We  wished  to  say  thus  much  to  our  Flemish  friends." 

Guillaume  Rym  bowed  low,  while  Coppenole.  with  his  surly 
mien,  had  the  air  of  one  of  the  bears  of  which  his  majesty  \vas 
speaking.  The  king  paid  no  heed.  He  had  just  dipped  his 
lips  into  the  goblet,  and  he  spat  out  the  beverage,  saying: 


MONSIEUR  LOUIS  8 AT 8  HIS  PRAYERS.  229 

"  Foh !    what  a  disagreeable  potioc  I "   The  man  who  was  read- 
ing continued :  — 

"  For  feeding  a  rascally  footpad ,  locked  up  these  six  months 
in  the  little  cell  of  the  flayer,  until  it  should  be  determined 
what  to  do  with  him,  six  livres,  four  sols." 

"  What's  that  ?  "  interrupted  the  king ;  "  feed  what  ought  to 
be  hanged !  Pa.sque-.Dieu  !  I  will  give  not  a  sou  more  for  that 
nourishment.  Olivier,  come  to  an  understanding  about  the 
matter  with  Monsieur  d'Estouteville,  and  prepare  me  this 
very  evening  the  wedding  of  the  gallant  and  the  gallows. 
Resume." 

Olivier  made  a  mark  with  his  thumb  against  the  article  of 
the  "  rascally  foot  soldier,"  and  passed  on. 

"  To  Henriet  Cousin,  master  executor  of  the  high  works  of 
justice  in  Paris,  the  sum  of  sixty  sols  parisis,  to  him  assessed 
and  ordained  by  monseigneur  the  provost  of  Paris,  for  having 
bought,  by  order  of  the  said  sieur  the  provost,  a  great  broad 
sword,  serving  to  execute  and  decapitate  persons  who  are  by 
justice  condemned  for  their  demerits,  and  he  hath  caused  the 
same  to  be  garnished  with  a  sheath  and  with  all  things  thereto 
appertaining;  and  hath  likewise  caused  to  be  repointed  and 
set  in  order  the  old  sword,  which  had  become  broken  and 
notched  in  executing  justice  on  Messire  Louis  de  Luxem- 
bourg, as  will  more  fully  appear  .  .  ." 

The  king  interrupted:  "That  suffices.  I  allow  the  sum 
with  great  good  will.  Those  are  expenses  which  I  do  not 
begrudge.  I  have  never  regretted  that  money.  Continue." 

"  For  having  made  over  a  great  cage  .  .  ." 

"Ah ! "  said  the  king,  grasping  the  arms  of  his  chair  in 
both  hands,  "I  knew  well  that  I  came  hither  to  this  Bastille 
for  some  purpose.  Hold,  Master  Olivier;  I  desire  to  see 
that  cage  myself.  You  shall  read  me  the  cost  while  I  am 
examining  it.  Messieurs  Flemings,  come  and  see  this ;  'tis 
curious." 

Then  he  rose,  leaned  on  the  arm  of  his  interlocutor,  made  a 
sign  to  the  sort  of  mute  who  stood  before  the  door  to  precede 
him,  to  the  two  Flemings  to  follow  him,  and  quitted  the  room. 

The  royal  company  was  recruited,  at  the  door  of  the  retreat, 


230  NOTRE-DAME. 

by  men  of  arras,  all  loaded  down  with  iron,  and  by  slender 
pages  bearing  flambeaux.  It  marched  for  some  time  through 
the  interior  of  the  gloomy  donjon,  pierced  with  staircases  and 
corridors  even  in  the  very  thickness  of  the  walls.  The  cup- 
tain  of  the  Bastille  marched  at  their  head,  and  caused  the 
wickets  to  be  opened  before  the  bent  and  aged  king,  who 
coughed  as  he  walked. 

At  each  wicket,  all  heads  were  obliged  to  stoop,  except  that 
of  the  old  man  bent  double  with  age.  '•  Hum,"  said  he  be- 
tween his  gums,  for  he  had  no  longer  any  teeth,  "  we  are 
already  quite  prepared  for  the  door  of  the  sepulchre.  For  a 
low  door,  a  bent  passer." 

At  length,  after  having  passed  a  final  wicket,  so  loaded 
with  locks  that  a  quarter  of  an  hour  was  required  to  open  it, 
they  entered  a  vast  and  lofty  vaulted  hall,  in  the  centre  of 
which  they  could  distinguish  by  the  light  of  the  torches,  a 
huge  cubic  mass  of  masonry,  iron,  and  wood.  The  interior 
was  hollow.  It  was  one  of  those  famous  cages  of  prisoners 
of  state,  which  were  called  "the  little  daughters  of  the  king." 
In  its  walls  there  were  two  or  three  little  windows  so  closely 
trellised  with  stout  iron  bars,  that  the  glass  was  not  visible. 
The  door  was  a  large  flat  slab  of  stone,  as  on  tombs ;  the  sort 
of  door  which  serves  for  entrance  only.  Only  here,  the  occu- 
pant was  alive. 

The  king  began  to  walk  slowly  round  the  little  edifice, 
examining  it  carefully,  while  Master  Olivier,  who  followed 
him.  read  aloud  the  note. 

"For  having  made  a  great  cage  of  wood  of  solid  beams, 
timbers  and  wall-plates,  measuring  nine  feet  in  length  by 
eight  in  breadth,  and  of  the  height  of  seven  feet  between 
the  partitions,  smoothed  and  clamped  with  great  bolts  of  iron, 
which  has  been  placed  in  a  chamber  situated  in  one  of  the 
towers  of  the  Bastille  Saint- Antoine,  in  which  cage  is  placed 
and  detained,  by  command  of  the  king  our  lord,  a  prisoner 
who  formerly  inhabited  an  old,  decrepit,  and  ruined  cage. 
There  have  been  employed  in  making  the  said  new  cage, 
ninety-six  horizontal  beams,  and  fifty-two  upright  joists,  ten 
wall  plates  three  toises  long;  there  have  been  occupied  nine- 


MONSIEUR  LOUIS  SAYS   HIS  PRATERS.  231 

teen  carpenters  to  hew,  work,  and  fit  all  the  said  wood  in  the 
courtyard  of  the  Bastille  during  twenty  days." 

"  Very  fine  heart  of  oak,"  said  the  king,  striking  the  wood- 
work with  his  fist. 

"  There  have  been  used  in  this  cage,"  continued  the  other, 
"two  hundred  and  twenty  great  bolts  of  iron,  of  nine  feet, 
and  of  eight,  the  rest  of  medium  length,  with  the  rowels, 
caps  and  counterbands  appertaining  to  the  said  bolts  ;  weigh- 
ing, the  said  iron  in  all,  three  thousand,  seven  hundred  and 
thirty-five  pounds ;  beside  eight  great  squares  of  iron,  serving 
to  attach  the  said  cage  in  place  with  clamps  and  nails  weigh- 
ing in  all  two  hundred  arid  eighteen  pounds,  not  reckoning 
the  iron  of  the  trellises  for  the  windows  of  the  chamber 
wherein  the  cage  hath  been  placed,  the  bars  of  iron  for  the 
door  of  the  cage  and  other  things." 

"  'Tis  a  great  deal  of  iron,"  said  the  king,  "  to  contain  the 
light  of  a  spirit." 

"  The  whole  amounts  to  three  hundred  and  seventeen  livres, 
five  sols,  seven  deniers." 

"  Pasque-JDieu  !  "  exclaimed  the  king. 

At  this  oath,  which  was  the  favorite  of  Louis  XI.,  some  one 
seemed  to  awaken  in  the  interior  of  the  cage ;  the  sound  of 
chains  was  heard,  grating  on  the  floor,  and  a  feeble  voice, 
which  seemed  to  issue  from  the  tomb  was  uplifted.  "  Sire ! 
sire  !  mercy  !  "  The  one  who  spoke  thus  could  not  be  seen. 

"  Three  hundred  and  seventeen  livres,  five  sols,  seven 
deniers,"  repeated  Louis  XL 

The  lamentable  voice  which  had  proceeded  from  the  cage 
had  frozen  all  present,  even  Master  Olivier  himself.  The 
king  alone  wore  the  air  of  not  having  heard.  At  his  order, 
Master  Olivier  resumed  his  reading,  and  his  majesty  coldly 
continued  his  inspection  of  the  cage. 

"  In  addition  to  this  there  hath  been  paid  to  a  mason  who 
hath  made  the  holes  wherein  to  place  the  gratings  of  the 
windows,  and  the  floor  of  the  chamber  where  the  cage  is, 
because  that  floor  could  not  support  this  cage  by  reason  of  its 
weight,  twenty-seven  livres  fourteen  sols  parisis." 

The  voice  began  to  moan  again. 


232  NOTRE-DAME. 

"Mercy,  sire !  I  swear  to  you  that  'twas  Monsieur  the  Car- 
dinal d' Angers  and  not  I,  who  was  guilty  of  treason." 

"  The  mason  is  bold ! "  said  the  king.   (  "  Continue,  Olivier." 

Olivier  continued,  — 

"  To  a  joiner  for  window  frames,  bedstead,  hollow  stool,  and 
other  things,  twenty  livres,  two  sols  parisis." 

The  voice  also  continued. 

"  Alas,  sire !  will  you  not  listen  to  me  ?  I  protest  to  you 
that  'twas  not  I  who  wrote  the  matter  to  Monseigueur  de 
Guyenne,  but  Monsieur  le  Cardinal  Balue." 

"  The  joiner  is  dear,"  quoth  the  king.     "  Is  that  all  ?  " 

"  No,  sire.  To  a  glazier,  for  the  windows  of  the  said  cham- 
ber, forty-six  sols,  eight  deniers  parisis." 

"  Have  mercy,  sire  !  Is  it  not  enough  to  have  given  all  my 
goods  to  my  judges,  my  plate  to  Monsieur  de  Torcy,  my 
library  to  Master  Pierre  Doriolle,  my  tapestry  to  the  gov- 
ernor of  the  Roussillon  ?  I  am  innocent.  I  have  been  shiver- 
ing in  an  iron  cage  for  fourteen  years.  Have  mercy,  sire ! 
You  will  find  your  reward  in  heaven." 

"Master  Olivier,"  said  the  king,  "the  total?" 

"  Three  hundred  sixty-seven  livres,  eight  sols,  three  deniers 
parisis." 

"  Notre-Dame  !  "  cried  the  king.  "  This  is  an  outrageous 
cage ! " 

He  tore  the  book  from  Master  Olivier's  hands,  and  set  to 
reckoning  it  himself  upon  his  fingers,  examining  the  paper 
and  the  cage  alternately.  Meanwhile,  the  prisoner  could  lie 
heard  sobbing.  This  was  lugubrious  in  the  darkness,  and 
their  faces  turned  pale  as  they  looked  at  each  other. 

"Fourteen  years,  sire!  Fourteen  years  now!  since  tin* 
month  of  April,  1469.  In  the  name  of  the  Holy  Mother  of 
God,  sire,  listen  to  me  !  During  all  this  time  you  have  en- 
joyed the  heat  of  the  sun.  Shall  I,  frail  creature,  never  more 
behold  the  day  ?  Mercy,  sire  !  Be  pitiful !  Clemency  is  a 
fine,  royal  virtue,  which  turns  aside  the  currents  of  wrath. 
Does  your  majesty  believe  that  in  the  hour  of  death  it  will  be 
a  great  cause  of  content  for  a  king  never  to  have  left  any  of- 
fence unpunished  ?  Besides,  sire,  I  did  not  betray  your  maj- 


MONSIEUR  LOUIS  SATS  HIS  PRAYERS.  233 

esty,  'twas  Monsieur  d' Angers  ;  and  I  have  on  my  foot  a  very 
heavy  chain,  and  a  great  ball  of  iron  at  the  end,  much  heavier 
than  it  should  be  in  reason.  Eh  !  sire  !  Have  pity  on  me  !  " 

"  Olivier,"  cried  the  king,  throwing  back  his  head,  "  I  ob- 
serve that  they  charge  me  twenty  sols  a  hogshead  for  plas- 
ter, while  it  is  worth  but  twelve.  You  will  refer  back  this 
account." 

He  turned  his  back  on  the  cage,  and  set  out  to  leave  the 
room.  The  miserable  prisoner  divined  from  the  removal 
of  the  torches  and  the  noise,  that  the  king  was  taking  his 
departure. 

"  Sire  !  sire  !  "  he  cried  in  despair. 

The  door  closed  again.  He  no  longer  saw  anything,  and 
heard  only  the  hoarse  voice  of  the  turnkey,  singing  in  his  ears 
this  ditty,  — 

"  Maitre  Jean  Balue, 
A  perdu  la  vue 
De  ses  eveches. 
Monsieur  de  Verdun. 
N'en  a  plus  pas  un; 
Tous  sont  depeches."  * 

The  king  reascended  in  silence  to  his  retreat,  and  his  suite 
followed  him,  terrified  by  the  last  groans  of  the  condemned 
man.  All  at  once  his  majesty  turned  to  the  Governor  of  the 
Bastille,  — 

"  By  the  way,"  said  he,  "  was  there  not  some  one  in  that 
cage  ?  " 

"  Pardieu,  yes  sire  ! "  replied  the  governor,  astounded  by 
the  question. 

"  And  who  was  it  ?  " 

"  Monsieur  the  Bishop  of  Verdun." 

The  king  knew  this  better  than  any  one  else.  But  it  was  a 
mania  of  his. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  he,  with  the  innocent  air  of  thinking  of  it  for 
the  first  time,  "Giiillaume  de  Haraiicourt,  the  friend  of  Mon- 
sieur the  Cardinal  Balue.  A  good  devil  of  a  bishop  ! " 

*  Master  Jean  Balue  has  lost  sight  of  his  bishoprics.  Monsieur  of  Ver- 
dun has  no  longer  one;  all  have  been  killed  off. 


234  NOTRE-DAME. 

At  the  expiration  of  a  few  moments,  the  door  of  the  retreat 
had  opened  again,  then  closed  upon  the  five  personages  whom 
the  reader  has  seen  at  the  beginning  of  this  chapter,  and  who 
resumed  their  places,  their  whispered  conversations,  and  their 
attitudes. 

During  the  king's  absence,  several  despatches  had  been 
placed  on  his  table,  and  he  broke  the  seals  himself.  Then  he 
began  to  read  them  promptly,  one  after  the  other,  made  a  sign 
to  Master  Olivier  who  appeared  to  exercise  the  office  of 
minister,  to  take  a  pen,  and  without  communicating  to  him 
the  contents  of  the  despatches,  he  began  to  dictate  in  a  low 
voice,  the  replies  which  the  latter  wrote,  on  his  knees,  in  an 
inconvenient  attitude  before  the  table. 

Guillaume  Rym  was  on  the  watch. 

The  king  spoke  so  low  that  the  Flemings  heard  nothing  of 
his  dictation,  except  some  isolated  and  rather  unintelligible 
scraps,  such  as,  — 

"  To  maintain  the  fertile  places  by  commerce,  and  the  sterile 
by  manufactures.  ...  —  To  show  the  English  lords  our  four 
bombards,  London,  Brabant,  Bourg-en-Bresse,  Saint-Omer 
.  .  .  — Artillery  is  the  cause  of  war  being  made  more  judi- 
ciously now.  .  .  .  — To  Monsieur  de  Bressuire,  our  friend. 
.  .  .  — Armies  cannot  be  maintained  without  tribute,  etc. 

Once  he  raised  his  voice,  — 

"  Pasfjue  Dieu!  Monsieur  the  King  of  Sicily  seals  his  let- 
ters with  yellow  wax,  like  a  king  of  France.  Perhaps  we  are 
in  the  wrong  to  permit  him  so  to  do.  My  fair  cousin  of  Bur- 
gundy granted  no  armorial  bearings  with  a  field  of  gules. 
The  grandeur  of  houses  is  assured  by  the  integrity  of  preroga- 
tives. Note  this,  friend  Olivier." 

Again,  — 

"  Oh !  oh  !  "  said  he,  "  What  a  long  message  !  What  doth 
our  brother  the  emperor  claim  ?  "  And  running  his  eye  over 
the  missive  and  breaking  his  reading  with  interjection : 
-  Surely  !  the  Germans  are  so  great  and  powerful,  that  it  is 
hardly  credible  —  But  let  us  not  forget  the  old  proverb  :  '  The 
iincst  county  is  Flanders;  the  finest  duchy,  Milan;  the  finest 
kingdom,  France.'  Is  it  not  so,  Messieurs  Flemings  ?  " 


MONSIEUR  LOUIS  SAYS  HIS  PRAYERS.  235 

This  time  Coppenole  bowed  in  company  with  Guillaume 
liym.  The  hosier's  patriotism  was  tickled. 

The  last  despatch  made  Louis  XI.  frown. 

••  \\  hut  is  this  ?  "  he  said,  "  Complaints  and  fault  finding 
against  our  garrisons  in  Picardy  !  Olivier,  write  with  diligence 
to  M.  the  Marshal  de  Rouault :  —  That  discipline  is  relaxed. 
That  the  gendarmes  of  the  unattached  troops,  the  feudal 
nobles,  the  free  archers,  and  the  Swiss  inflict  infinite  evils  on 
the  rustics.  —  That  the  military,  not  content  with  what  they 
fiud  in  the  houses  of  the  rustics,  constrain  them  with  violent 
blows  of  cudgel  or  of  lash  to  go  and  get  wine,  spices,  and 
other  unreasonable  things  in  the  town. — That  monsieur  the 
king  knows  this.  That  we  undertake  to  guard  our  people 
;i gainst  inconveniences,  larcenies  and  pillage.  —  That  such  is 
our  will,  by  our  Lady  !  —  That  in  addition,  it  suits  us  not  that 
any  fiddler,  barber,  or  any  soldier  varlet  should  be  clad  like  a 
prince,  in  velvet,  cloth  of  silk,  and  rings  of  gold.  —  That  these 
vanities  are  hateful  to  God. — That  we,  who  are  gentlemen, 
content  ourselves  with  a  doublet  of  cloth  at  sixteen  sols  the 
ell,  of  Paris.  —  That  messieurs  the  camp-followers  can  very 
well  come  down  to  that,  also. — Command  and  ordain.  —  To 
Monsieur  de  Rouault,  our  friend.  —  Good." 

He  dictated  this  letter  aloud,  in  a  firm  tone,  and  in  jerks. 
At  the  moment  when  he  finished  it,  the  door  opened  and  gave 
passage  to  a  new  personage,  who  precipitated  himself  into  the 
chamber,  crying  in  affright,  — 

"  Sire  !  sire  !  there  is  a  sedition  of  the  populace  in  Paris  !  " 

Louis  XL's  grave  face  contracted ;  but  all  that  was  visible 
of  his  emotion  passed  away  like  a  flash  of  lightning.  He  con- 
trolled himself  and  said  with  tranquil  severity,  — 

"  Gossip  Jacques,  you  enter  very  abruptly  !  " 

"  Sire !  sire  !  there  is  a  revolt ! "  repeated  Gossip  Jacques 
breathlessly. 

The  king,  who  had  risen,  grasped  him  roughly  by  the  arm, 
and  said  in  his  ear,  in  such  a  manner  as  to  be  heard  by  him 
alone,  with  concentrated  rage  and  a  sidelong  glance  at  the 
Flemings,  — 

"  Hold  your  tongue  !  or  speak  low  !  " 


236  NOTRE-DAME. 

The  new  comer  understood,  and  began  in  a  low  tone  to  give 
a  very  terrified  account,  to  which  the  king  listened  calmly, 
while  Guillaume  Rym  called  Coppenole's  attention  to  the  face 
and  dress  of  the  new  arrival,  to  his  furred  cowl,  (rajjutiu  j'<>t//-- 
rata),  his  short  cape,  (epitogia  curta),  his  robe  of  black  velvet, 
which  bespoke  a  president  of  the  court  of  accounts. 

Hardly  had  this  personage  given  the  king  some  explana- 
tions, when  Louis  XI.  exclaimed,  bursting  into  a  laugh,  — 

"  In  truth  ?  Speak  aloud,  Gossip  Coictier !  What  call  is 
there  for  you  to  talk  so  low  ?  Our  Lady  knoweth  that  we  con- 
ceal nothing  from  our  good  friends  the  Flemings." 

"But  sire.  .  .  ." 

"  Speak  loud  !  " 

Gossip  Coictier  was  struck  dumb  with  surprise. 

"  So,"  resumed  the  king,  —  "  speak  sir,  —  there  is  a  commo- 
tion among  the  louts  in  our  good  city  of  Paris  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sire." 

"  And  which  is  moving  you  say,  against  monsieur  the 
bailiff  of  the  Palais-de-Justice  ?  " 

"  So  it  appears,"  said  the  gossip,  who  still  stammered,  utterly 
astounded  by  the  abrupt  and  inexplicable  change  which  had 
just  taken  place  in  the  king's  thoughts. 

Louis  XI.  continued  :  "  Where  did  the  watch  meet  the  rub- 
ble ?  " 

"  Marching  from  the  Grand  Truanderie,  towards  the  Pont- 
aux-Changeurs.  I  met  it  myself  as  I  was  on  my  way  hither  to 
obey  your  majesty's  commands.  I  heard  some  of  them  shout- 
ing :  '  Down  with  the  bailiff  of  the  palace  ! ' ' 

"  And  what  complaints  have  they  against  the  bailiff  ?  " 

"  Ah  ! "  said  Gossip  Jacques,  "  because  he  is  their  lord." 

"  Really  ?  " 

"Yes,  sire.  They  are  knaves  from  the  Cour-des-Miracles. 
They  have  been  complaining  this  long  while,  of  the  bailiff, 
whose  vassals  they  are.  They  do  not  wish  to  recognize  him 
either  as  judge  or  as  voyer  ?  "  * 

"  Yes,  certainly  ! "  retorted  the  king  with  a  smile  of  satis- 
faction which  he  strove  in  vain  to  disguise. 

*  One  in  charge  of  the  highways. 


MONSIEUR  LOUIS  SAYS  HIS  PRAYERS.  237 

"  In  all  their  petitions  to  the  Parliament,  they  claim  to  have 
but  two  masters.  Your  majesty  and  their  God,  who  is  the 
devil,  I  believe." 

"  Eh !  eh  !  "  said  the  king. 

He  rubbed  his  hands,  he  laughed  with  that  inward  mirth 
which  makes  the  countenance  beam ;  he  was  unable  to  dissim- 
ulate his  joy,  although  he  endeavored  at  moments  to  compose 
himself.  No  one  understood  it  in  the  least,  not  even  Master 
Olivier.  He  remained  silent  for  a  moment,  with  a  thoughtful 
but  contented  air. 

"  Are  they  in  force  ?  "  he  suddenly  inquired. 

"  Yes,  assuredly,  sire,"  replied  Gossip  Jacques. 

"  How  many  ?  '" 

"  Six  thousand  at  the  least." 

The  king  could  not  refrain  from  saying :  "  Good ! "  he  went 
on,  — 

"  Are  they  armed  ?" 

"With  scythes,  pikes,  hackbuts,  pickaxes.  All  sorts  of 
very  violent  weapons." 

The  king  did  not  appear  in  the  least  disturbed  by  this  list. 
Jacques  considered  it  his  duty  to  add,  — 

"If  your  majesty  does  not  send  prompt  succor  to  the  bailiff, 
he  is  lost." 

"  We  will  send,"  said  the  king  with  an  air  of  false  serious- 
ness. "  It  is  well.  Assuredly  we  will  send.  Monsieur  the  bai- 
liff is  our  friend.  Six  thousand  !  They  are  desperate  scamps  ! 
Their  audacity  is  marvellous,  and  we  are  greatly  enraged  at  it. 
But  we  have  only  a  few  people  about  us  to-night.  To-morrow 
morning  will  be  time  enough." 

Gossip  Jacques  exclaimed,  "  Instantly,  sire  !  there  will  be 
time  to  sack  the  bailiwick  a  score  of  times,  to  violate  the 
seignory,  to  hang  the  bailiff.  For  God's  sake,  sire  !  send 
before  to-morrow  morning." 

The  king  looked  him  full  in  the  face.  "I  have  told  you 
to-morrow  morning." 

It  was  one  of  those  looks  to  which  one  does  not  reply. 

After  a  silence,  Louis  XL  raised  his  voice  once  more,  — 

"  You  should  know  that,  Gossip  Jacques.     What  was  —  " 


238  NOTRE-DAME. 

He  corrected  himself.     "What  is  the  bailiff's  feudal  jurisdic- 
tion ?  " 

"  Sire,  the  bailiff  of  the  palace  has  the  Rue  Calendre  as  far 
as  the  Rue  de  1'Herberie,  the  Place  Saint-Michel,  and  the 
localities  vulgarly  known  as  the  Mureaux,  situated  near  the 
church  of  Notre  Daine  des  Champs  (here  Louis  XI.  raised 
the  brim  of  his  hat),  which  hotels  number  thirteen,  plus  the 
Cour  des  Miracles,  plus  the  Maladerie,  called  the  Banlieiu1, 
plus  the  whole  highway  which  begins  at  that  Maladerie  and 
ends  at  the  Forte  Sainte-Jacques.  Of  these  divers  places  he 
is  voyer,  high,  middle,  and  low,  justiciary,  full  seigneur." 

"  Bless  me  ! "  said  the  king,  scratching  his  left  ear  with  his 
right  hand,  "  that  makes  a  goodly  bit  of  my  city !  Ah !  mon- 
sieur the  bailiff  was  king  of  all  that." 

This  time  he  did  not  correct  himself.  He  continued  dream- 
ily, and  as  though  speaking  to  himself,  — 

"Very  fine,  monsieur  the  bailiff!  You  had  there  between 
your  teeth  a  pretty  slice  of  our  Paris." 

All  at  once  he  broke  out  explosively,  u  Pasque-Dieu  I " 
What  people  are  those  who  claim  to  be  voyers,  justiciaries, 
lords  and  masters  in  our  domains  ?  who  have  their  tollgates 
at  the  end  of  every  field  ?  their  gallows  and  their  hangman 
at  every  cross-road  among  our  people  ?  So  that  as  the  Greek 
believed  that  he  had  as  many  gods  as  there  were  fountains, 
and  the  Persian  as  many  as  he  beheld  stars,  the  Frenchman 
counts  as  many  kings  as  he  sees  gibbets !  Pardieu !  'tis  an 
evil  thing,  and  the  confusion  of  it  displeases  me.  I  should 
greatly  like  to  know  whether  it  be  the  mercy  of  God  that 
there  should  be  in  Paris  any  other  lord  than  the  king,  any 
other  judge  than  our  parliament,  any  other  emperor  than 
ourselves  in  this  empire  !  By  the  faith  of  my  soul !  the  day 
must  certainly  come  when  there  shall  exist  in  France  but  cue 
king,  one  lord,  one  judge,  one  headsman,  as  there  is  in  para- 
dise but  one  God ! " 

He  lifted  his  cap  again,  and  continued,  still  dreamily,  with 
the  air  and  accent  of  a  hunter  who  is  cheering  on  his  pack  of 
hounds :  "  Good,  my  people  !  bravely  done !  break  these  false 
lords!  do  your  duty!  at  them  !  have  at  them!  pillage  them  I 


MONSIEUR   LOUIS  SAYS   HIS  PRAYERS.  239 

take  them  !  sack  them !  .  .  .  Ah !  you  want  to  be  kings,  nit- s- 
seigneurs  ?  On,  my  people  on  ! " 

Here  he  interrupted  himself  abruptly,  bit  his  lips  as  though 
to  take  back  his  thought  which  had  already  half  escaped, 
bent  his  piercing  eyes  in  turn  on  each  of  the  five  persons 
who  surrounded  him,  and  suddenly  grasping  his  hat  with 
both  hands  and  staring  full  at  it,  he  said  to  it :  "  Oh !  I 
would  burn  you  if  you  knew  what  there  was  in  my  head." 

Then  casting  about  him  once  more  the  cautious  and  uneasy 
glance  of  the  fox  re-entering  his  hole,  — 

"Xo  matter!  we  will  succor  monsieur  the  bailiff.  Unfor- 
tunately, we  have  but  few  troops  here  at  the  present  moment, 
against  so  great  a  populace.  We  must  wait  until  to-morrow. 
The  order  will  be  transmitted  to  the  City  and  every  one  who 
is  caught  will  be  immediately  hung." 

"  By  the  way,  sire,"  said  Gossip  Coictier,  "  I  had  forgotten 
that  in  the  first  agitation,  the  watch  have  seized  two  laggards 
of  the  band.  If  your  majesty  desires  to  see  these  men,  they 
are  here." 

"  If  I  desire  to  see  them  ! "  cried  the  king.  "  What !  Pasque- 
Dieu  !  You  forget  a  thing  like  that !  Run  quick,  you,  Olivier  ! 
Go,  seek  them  ! " 

Master  Olivier  quitted  the  room  and  returned  a  moment 
later  with  the  two  prisoners,  surrounded  by  archers  of  the 
guard.  The  first  had  a  coarse,  idiotic,  drunken  and  aston- 
ished face.  He  was  clothed  in  rags,  and  walked  with  one 
knee  bent  and  dragging  his  leg.  The  second  had  a  pallid 
and  smiling  countenance,  with  which  the  reader  is  already 
acquainted. 

The  king  surveyed  them  for  a  moment  without  uttering  a 
word,  then  addressing  the  first  one  abruptly,  — 

"  What's  your  name  ?  " 

"  Gieffroy  Pincebourde." 

"  Your  trade." 

"Outcast." 

"  What  were  you  going  to  do  in  this  damnable  sedition  ?  " 

The  outcast  stared  at  the  king,  and  swung  his  arms  with  a 
stupid  air. 


240  NOTRE-DAME. 

He  had  one  of  those  awkwardly  shaped  heads  where  intelli- 
gence is  about  as  much  at  its  ease  as  a  light  beneath  an 
extinguisher. 

"  I  know  not,"  said  he.     "  They  went,  I  went." 

"Were  you  not  going  to  outrageously  attack  and  pillage 
your  lord,  the  bailiff  of  the  palace  ?  " 

"  I  know  that  they  were  going  to  take  something  from  some 
one.  That  is  all." 

A  soldier  pointed  out  to  the  king  a  billhook  which  he  had 
seized  on  the  person  of  the  vagabond. 

"  Do  you  recognize  this  weapon  ?  "  demanded  the  king. 

"  Yes ;  'tis  my  billhook ;  I  am  a  vine-dresser." 

"  And  do  you  recognize  this  man  as  your  companion  ? " 
added  Louis  XL,  pointing  to  the  other  prisoner. 

"No,  I  do  not  know  him." 

"That  will  do,"  said  the  king,  making  a  sign  with  his  finger 
to  the  silent  personage  who  stood  motionless  beside  the  door, 
to  whom  we  have  already  called  the  reader's  attention. 

"  Gossip  Tristan,  here  is  a  man  for  you." 

Tristan  1'Hermite  bowed.  He  gave  an  order  in  a  IOAV  voice 
to  two  archers,  who  led  away  the  poor  vagabond. 

In  the  meantime,  the  king  had  approached  the  second  pris- 
oner, who  was  perspiring  in  great  drops :  "  Your  name  ?  " 

"Sire,  Pierre  Gringoire." 

"  Your  trade  ?  " 

"  Philosopher,  sire." 

"How  do  you  permit  yourself,  knave,  to  go  and  besiege  our 
friend,  monsieur  the  bailiff  of  the  palace,  and  what  have  YOU 
to  say  concerning  this  popular  agitation  ?  " 

"  Sire,  I  had  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

"  Come,  now !  you  wanton  wretch,  were  not  you  appre- 
hended by  the  watch  in  that  bad  company?" 

"No,  sire,  there  is  a  mistake.  'Tis  a  fatality.  I  make 
tragedies.  Sire,  I  entreat  your  majesty  to  listen  to  me.  I 
am  a  poet.  'Tis  the  melancholy  way  of  men  of  my  profession 
to  roam  the  streets  by  night.  I  was  passing  there.  It  was 
mere  chance.  I  was  unjustly  arrested;  I  am  innocent  of  this 
civil  tempest.  Your  majesty  sees  that  the  vagabond  did 
not  recognize  me.  I  conjure  your  majesty  — 


MONSIEUR   LOUIS   SAYS   HIS  PRAYERS.  241 

"  Hold  your  tongue  ! "  said  the  king,  between  two  swallows 
of  his  ptisan.  "You  split  our  head  !  " 

Tristan  1'Hermite  advanced  and  pointing  to  Gringoire,  — 

"  Sire,  can  this  one  be  hanged  also  ?  " 

This  was  the  first  word  that  he  had  uttered. 

"Phew  !"  replied  the  king,  "I  see  no  objection." 

"  I  see  a  great  many  ! "  said  Gringoire. 

At  that  moment,  our  philosopher  was  greener  than  an  olive. 
He  perceived  from  the  king's  cold  and  indifferent  mien  that 
there  was  no  other  resource  than  something  very  pathetic, 
and  he  flung  himself  at  the  feet  of  Louis  XI.,  exclaiming, 
with  gestures  of  despair  :  — 

"  Sire  !  will  your  majesty  deign  to  hear  me.  Sire  !  break 
not  in  thunder  over  so  small  a  thing  as  myself.  God's  great 
lightning  doth  not  bombard  a  lettuce.  Sire,  you  are  an 
august  and  very  puissant  monarch ;  have  pity  on  a  poor  man 
who  is  honest,  and  who  would  find  it  more  difficult  to  stir  up 
a  revolt  than  a  cake  of  ice  would  to  give  out  a  spark !  Very 
gracious  sire,  kindness  is  the  virtue  of  a  lion  and  a  king. 
Alas  !  rigor  only  frightens  minds ;  the  impetuous  gusts  of 
the  north  wind  do  not  make  the  traveller  lay  aside  his  cloak ; 
the  sun,  bestowing  his  rays  little  by  little,  warms  him  in  such 
wise  that  it  will  make  him  strip  to  his  shirt.  Sire,  you  are 
the  sun.  I  protest  to  you,  my  sovereign  lord  and  master,  that 
I  am  not  an  outcast,  thief,  and  disorderly  fellow.  Revolt  and 
brigandage  belong  not  to  the  outfit  of  Apollo.  I  am  not  the 
man  to  fling  myself  into  those  clouds  which  break  out  into 
seditious  clamor.  I  am  3*0111-  majesty's  faithful  vassal.  That 
same  jealousy  which  a  hushand  cherisheth  for  the  honor  of 
his  wife,  the  resentment  which  the  son  hath  for  the  love  of 
his  father,  a  good  vassal  should  feel  for  the  glory  of  his  king ; 
he  should  pine  away  for  the  zeal  of  this  house,  for  the  aggran- 
dizement of  his  service.  Every  other  passion  which  should 
transport  him  would  be  but  madness.  These,  sire,  are  my 
maxims  of  state :  then  do  not  judge  me  to  be  a  seditious  and 
thieving  rascal  because  my  garment  is  worn  at  the  elbows.  If 
you  will  grant  me  mercy,  sire,  I  will  wear  it  out  on  the  knees 
in  praying  to  God  for  you  night  and  morning  !  Alas  !  I  am 


242  NOTRE-DAME. 

not  extremely  rich,  'tis  true.  I  am  even  rather  poor.  But 
not  vicious  on  that  account.  It  is  not  niy  fault.  Every  one 
knoweth  that  great  wealth  is  not  to  be  drawn  from  literature, 
and  that  those  who  are  best  posted  in  good  books  do  not 
always  have  a  great  fire  in  winter.  The  advocate's  trade 
taketh  all  the  grain,  and  leaveth  only  straw  to  the  other 
scientific  professions.  There  are  forty  very  excellent  proverbs 
anent  the  hole-ridden  cloak  of  the  philosopher.  Oh,  sire  ! 
clemency  is  the  only  light  which  can  enlighten  the  interior  of 
so  great  a  soul.  Clemency  beareth  the  torch  before  all  the  other 
virtues.  Without  it  they  are  but  blind  men  groping  after 
God  in  the  dark.  Compassion,  which  is  the  same  thing  as 
clemency,  causeth  the  love  of  subjects,  which  is  the  most 
powerful  bodyguard  to  a  prince.  What  matters  it  to  your 
majesty,  who  dazzles  all  faces,  if  there  is  one  poor  man  more 
on  earth,  a  poor  innocent  philosopher  spluttering  amid  the 
shadows  of  calamity,  with  an  empty  pocket  which  resounds 
against  his  hollow  belly  ?  Moreover,  sire,  I  am  a  man  of  let- 
ters. Great  kings  make  a  pearl  for  their  crowns  by  protect- 
ing letters.  Hercules  did  not  disdain  the  title  of  Musagetes. 
Mathias  Corvin  favored  Jean  de  Monroyal,  the  ornament  of 
mathematics.  Now,  'tis  an  ill  way  to  protect  letters  to  hang 
men  of  letters.  What  a  stain  on  Alexander  if  he  had  hung 
Aristoteles  !  This  act  would  not  be  a  little  patch  on  the  face 
of  his  reputation  to  embellish  it,  but  a  very  malignant  ulcer 
to  disfigiire  it.  Sire  !  I  made  a  very  proper  epithalamium  for 
Mademoiselle  of  Flanders  and  Monseigneur  the  very  august 
Dauphin.  That  is  not  a  firebrand  of  rebellion.  Your  majesty 
sees  that  I  am  not  a  scribbler  of  no  reputation,  that  I  have 
studied  excellently  well,  and  that  I  possess  much  natural  elo- 
quence. Have  mercy  upon  me,  sire  !  In  so  doing  you  will 
perform  a  gallant  deed  to  our  Lady,  and  I  swear  to  you  that 
I  am  greatly  terrified  at  the  idea  of  being  hanged  ! " 

So  saying,  the  unhappy  Gringoire  kissed  the  king's  slippers, 
and  Guillaume  Rym  said  to  Coppenole  in  a  low  tone :  "  He 
doth  well  to  drag  himself  on  the  earth.  Kings  are  like  the 
Jupiter  of  Crete,  they  have  ears  only  in  their  feet."  And 
without  troubling  himself  about  the  Jupiter  of  Crete,  the 


MONSIEUR   LOUIS   SAYS  HIS  PRAYERS.  243 

hosier  replied  with  a  heavy  smile,  and  his  eyes  fixed  on 
Gringoire  :  "  Oh  !  that's  it  exactly  !  I  seem  to  hear  Chancellor 
Hugonet  craving  mercy  of  me." 

When  Gringoire  paused  at  last,  quite  out  of  breath,  he 
raised  his  head  tremblingly  towards  the  king,  who  was  engaged 
in  scratching  a  spot  on  the  knee  of  his  breeches  with  his  finger- 
nail ;  then  his  majesty  began  to  drink  from  the  goblet  of 
ptisan.  But  he  uttered  not  a  word,  and  this  silence  tortured 
Gringoire.  At  last  the  king  looked  at  him.  "  Here  is  a  ter- 
rible bawler  ! "  said  he.  Then,  turning  to  Tristan  1'Hermite, 
"  Bah  !  let  him  go  !  " 

Gringoire  fell  backwards,  quite  thunderstruck  with  joy. 

11  At  liberty!"  growled  Tristan  "  Doth  not  your  majesty 
Avish  to  have  him  detained  a  little  while  in  a  cage  ?  " 

"  Gossip,"  retorted  Louis  XL,  "think  you  that  'tis  for  birds 
of  this  feather  that  we  cause  to  be  made  cages  at  three  hun- 
dred and  sixty-seven  livres,  eight  sous,  three  deniers  apiece  ? 
Kelease  him  at  once,  the  wanton  (Louis  XL  was  fond  of  this 
word  which  formed,  with  Pasque-Dleu,  the  foundation  of  his 
joviality),  and  put  him  out  with  a  buffet." 

"  Ugh  !  "  cried  Gringoire,  "  what  a  great  king  is  here  !  " 

And  for  fear  of  a  counter  order,  he  nished  towards  the  door, 
which  Tristan  opened  for  him  with  a  very  bad  grace.  The 
soldiers  left  the  room  with  him,  pushing  him  before  them 
with  stout  thwacks,  which  Gringoire  bore  like  a  true  stoical 
philosopher. 

The  king's  good  humor  since  the  revolt  against  the  bailiff 
had  been  announced  to  him,  made  itself  apparent  in  every 
way.  This  unwonted  clemency  was  no  small  sign  of  it.  Tris- 
tan 1'Hermite  in  his  corner  wore  the  surly  look  of  a  dog  who 
has  had  a  bone  snatched  away  from  him. 

Meanwhile,  the  king  thrummed  gayty  with  his  fingers  on  the 
arm  of  his  chair,  the  March  of  Pont-Audemer.  He  was  a  dis- 
sembling prince,  but  one  who  understood  far  better  how  to 
hide  his  troubles  than  his  joys.  These  external  manifesta- 
tions of  joy  at  any  good  news  sometimes  proceeded  to  very 
great  lengths ;  thus,  on  the  death  of  Charles  the  Bold,  to  the 
point  of  vowing  silver  balustrades  to  Saint  Martin  of  Tours  ; 


244  NOTBE-DAME. 

on  his  advent  to  the  throne,  so  far  as  forgetting  to  order  his 
father's  obsequies. 

"He!  sire!"  suddenly  exclaimed  Jacques  Coictier,  "what 
has  become  of  the  acute  attack  of  illness  for  which  your 
majesty  had  me  summoned  ?  " 

"  Oh  ! "  said  the  king,  "  I  really  suffer  greatly,  my  gossip. 
There  is  a  hissing  in  my  ear  and  tiery  rakes  rack  my  chest." 

Coictier  took  the  king's  hand,  and  begun  to  feel  of  his  pulse 
with  a  knowing  air. 

"Look,  Coppenole,"  said  Rym,  in  a  low  voice.  "Behold 
him  between  Coictier  and  Tristan.  They  are  his  whole  court. 
A  physician  for  himself,  a  headsman  for  others." 

As  he  felt  the  king's  pulse,  Coictier  assumed  an  air  of 
greater  and  greater  alarm.  Louis  XI.  watched  him  with  some 
anxiety.  Coictier  grew  visibly  more  gloomy.  The  brave  man 
had  no  other  farm  than  the  king's  bad  health.  He  speculated 
on  it  to  the  best  of  his  ability. 

"  Oh !  oh  !"  he  murmured  at  length,  "  this  is  serious  indeed." 

"  Is  it  not  ?  "  said  the  king,  uneasily. 

" Pulsus  creber,  anhelans,  crepitans,  irregularis"  continued 
the  leech. 

"  Pasque-Dleu  !  " 

"  This  may  carry  off  its  man  in  less  than  three  days." 

"  Our  Lady ! "  exclaimed  the  king.  "  And  the  remedy, 
gossip  ?  " 

"  I  am  meditating  upon  that,  sire." 

He  made  Louis  XI.  put  out  his  tongue,  shook  his  head, 
made  a  grimace,  and  in  the  very  midst  of  these  affectations , — 

"Pardieu,  sire,"  he  suddenly  said,  "I  must  tell  you  that 
there  is  a  receivership  of  the  royal  prerogatives  vacant,  and 
that  I  have  a  nephew." 

"I  give  the  receivership  to  your  nephew,  Gossip  Jacques," 
replied  the  king ;  "  but  draw  this  fire  from  my  breast." 

"Since  your  majesty  is  so  clement,"  replied  the  leech,  "you 
will  not  refuse  to  aid  me  a  little  in  building  my  house,  Rue 
Saint-Andre-des-Arcs." 

"  Heugh  !  "  said  the  king. 

"  I  am  at  the  end   of   my  finances,"   pursued   the   doctor ; 


MONSIEUR   LOUIS   SAYS  HIS  PRAYERS.  245 

'  and  it  would  really  be  a  pity  that  the  house  should  not  have  a 
roof ;  not  on  account  of  the  house,  which  is  simple  and  thor- 
oughly bourgeois,  but  because  of  the  paintings  of  Jehan  Four- 
bault,  which  adorn  its  wainscoating.  There  is  a  Diana  flying 
in  the  air,  but  so  excellent,  so  tender,  so  delicate,  of  so  ingen- 
uous an  action,  her  hair  so  well  coiffed  and  adorned  with  a 
crescent,  her  flesh  so  white,  that  she  leads  into  temptation 
those  who  regard  her  too  curiously.  There,  is  also  a  Ceres. 
She  is  another  very  fair  divinity.  She  is  seated  on  sheaves  of 
wheat  and  crowned  with  a  gallant  garland  of  wheat  ears  inter- 
laced with  salsify  and  other  flowers.  Never  were  seen  more 
amorous  eyes,  more  rounded  limbs,  a  nobler  air,  or  a  more 
gracefully  flowing  skirt.  She  is  one  of  the  most  innocent 
and  most  perfect  beauties  whom  the  brush  has  ever  pro- 
duced." 

"  Executioner ! "  grumbled  Louis  XI.,  "  what  are  you  driv- 
ing at  ?  " 

"  I  must  have  a  roof  for  these  paintings,  sire,  and,  although 
'tis  but  a  small  matter,  I  have  no  more  money." 

"  How  much  doth  your  roof  cost  ?  " 

"  Why  a  roof  of  copper,  embellished  and  gilt,  two  thousand 
livres  at  the  most." 

"  Ah,  assassin  !  "  cried  the  king,  "  He  never  draws  out  one 
of  my  teeth  which  is  not  a  diamond." 

"  Am  I  to  have  my  roof  ?  "  said  Coictier. 

"  Yes ;  and  go  to  the  devil,  but  cure  me." 

Jacques  Coictier  bowed  low  and  said,  — 

"Sire,  it  is  a  repellent  which  will  save  you.  We  will 
apply  to  your  loins  the  great  defensive  composed  of  cerate, 
Armenian  bole,  white  of  egg,  oil,  and  vinegar.  You  will  con- 
tinue your  ptisan  and  we  will  answer  for  your  majesty." 

A  burning  candle  does  not  attract  one  gnat  alone.  Master 
Olivier,  perceiving  the  king  to  be  in  a  liberal  mood,  and  judg- 
ing the  moment  to  be  propitious,  approached  in  his  turn. 
"Sire  —  " 

"  What  is  it  now  ?  "  said  Louis  XI. 

"Sire,  your  majesty  knoweth  that  Simon  Kadin  is  dead  ?  " 

"  Well  ?  " 


246  NOTRE-DAME. 

"  He  was  councillor  to  the  king  in  the  matter  of  the  courts 
of  the  treasury." 

"Well?" 

"  Sire,  his  place  is  vacant." 

As  he  spoke  thus,  Master  Olivier's  haughty  face  quitted  its 
arrogant  expression  for  a  lowly  one.  It  is  the  only  change 
which  ever  takes  place  in  a  courtier's  visage.  The  king 
looked  him  well  in  the  face  and  said  in  a  dry  tone,  —  "I 
understand." 

He  resumed,  — 

"  Master  Olivier,  the  Marshal  de  Boucicaut  was  wont  to  say, 
'There's  no  master  save  the  king,  there  are  no  fishes  save 
in  the  sea.'  I  see  that  you  agree  with  Monsieur  de  Bouci- 
caut. Now  listen  to  this ;  we  have  a  good  memory.  In  '68 
we  made  you  valet  of  our  chamber :  in  '69,  guardian  of  the 
fortress  of  the  bridge  of  Saint-Cloud,  at  a  hundred  livres  of 
Tournay  in  wages  (you  wanted  them  of  Paris).  In  Novem- 
ber, '73,  by  letters  given  to  Gergeole,  we  instituted  you 
keeper  of  the  Wood  of  Vincennes,  in  the  place  of  Gilbert 
Acle.  equerry ;  in  '75,  gruyer  *  of  the  forest  of  Rouvray-lez- 
Saint-Cloud,  in  the  place  of  Jacques  le  Maire ;  in  '78,  we 
graciously  settled  on  you,  by  letters  patent  sealed  doubly 
with  green  wax,  an  income  of  ten  livres  parisis,  for  you  and 
your  wife,  on  the  Place  of  the  Merchants,  situated  at  the 
School  Saint-Germain;  in  '79,  we  made  you  gruyer  of  the 
forest  of  Senart,  in  place  of  that  poor  Jehan  Daiz ;  then  cap- 
tain of  the  Chateau  of  Loches ;  then  governor  of  Saint- 
Quentin;  then  captain  of  the  bridge  of  Meulan,  of  whir-h 
you  cause  yourself  to  be  called  comte.  Out  of  the  five  sols 
fine  paid  by  every  barber  who  shaves  on  a  festival  day,  there 
are  three  sols  for  you  and  we  have  the  rest.  We  have  been 
good  enough  to  change  your  name  of  Le  Mauvais  (The  Evil), 
which  resembled  your  face  too  closely.  In  '76,  we  granted 
you,  to  the  great  displeasure  of  our  nobility,  armorial  bear- 
ings of  a  thousand  colors,  which  give  you  the  breast  of  a 
peacock.  Pasque-Dieu !  Are  not  you  surfeited  ?  Is  not  the 
draught  of  fishes  sufficiently  fine  and  miraculous  ?  Are  you 

*  A  lord  having  a  right  on  the  woods  of  his  vassals. 


MONSIEUR  LOUIS   SAYS  HIS  PRAYERS.  247 

not  afraid  that  one  salmon  more  will  make  your  boat  sink  ? 
Pride  will  be  your  ruin,  gossip.  Ruin  and  disgrace  always 
press  hard  on  the  heels  of  pride.  Consider  this  and  hold 
your  tongue." 

These  words,  uttered  with  severity,  made  Master  Olivier's 
face  revert  to  its  insolence. 

"  Good ! "  he  muttered,  almost  aloud,  "  'tis  easy  to  see  that 
the  king  is  ill  to-day ;  he  giveth  all  to  the  leech." 

Louis  XL  far  from  being  irritated  by  this  petulant  insult, 
resumed  with  some  gentleness,  "  Stay,  I  was  forgetting  that  I 
made  you  my  ambassador  to  Madame  Marie,  at  Ghent.  Yes, 
gentlemen,"  added  the  king  turning  to  the  Flemings,  "this 
man  hath  been  an  ambassador.  There,  my  gossip,"  he  pur- 
sued, addressing  Master  Olivier,  "let  us  not  get  angry;  we 
are  old  friends.  'Tis  very  late.  We  have  terminated  our 
labors.  Shave  me." 

Our  readers  have  not,  without  doubt,  waited  until  the  pres- 
ent moment  to  recognize  in  Master  Olivier  that  terrible 
Figaro  whom  Providence,  the  great  maker  of  dramas,  mingled 
so  artistically  in  the  long  and  bloody  comedy  of  the  reign  of 
Louis  XL  We  will  not  here  undertake  to  develop  that  singu- 
lar figure.  This  barber  of  the  king  had  three  names.  At 
court  he  was  politely  called  Olivier  le  Daim  (the  Deer) ; 
among  the  people  Olivier  the  Devil.  His  real  name  was 
Olivier  le  Mauvais. 

Accordingly,  Olivier  le  Mauvais  remained  motionless,  sulk- 
ing at  the  king,  and  glancing  askance  at  Jacques  Coictier. 

"  Yes,  yes,  the  physician  !  "  he  said  between  his  teeth. 

"  Ah,  yes,  the  physician  ! "  retorted  Louis  XL,  with  singu- 
lar good  humor ;  "  the  physician  has  more  credit  than  you. 
'Tis  very  simple;  he  has  taken  hold  upon  us  by  the  whole 
body,  and  you  hold  us  only  by  the  chin.  Come,  my  poor 
barber,  all  will  come  right.  What  would  you  say  and  what 
would  become  of  your  office  if  I  were  a  king  like  Chilperic, 
whose  gesture  consisted  in  holding  his  beard  in  one  hand  ? 
Come,  gossip  mine,  fulfil  your  office,  shave  me.  Go  get  what 
you  need  therefor." 

Olivier  perceiving  that  the  king  had  made  up  his  mind  to 


248  NOTRE-DAME. 

• 

laugh,  and  that  there  was  no  way  of  even  annoying  him,  went 
off  grumbling  to  execute  his  orders. 

The  king  rose,  approached  the  window,  and  suddenly  open- 
ing it  with  extraordinary  agitation,  — 

"  Oh !  yes  ! "  he  exclaimed,  clapping  his  hands,  "  yonder  is 
a  redness  in  the  sky  over  the  City.  'Tis  the  bailiff  burning. 
It  can  be  nothing  else  but  that.  Ah  !  my  good  people  !  here 
you  are  aiding  me  at  last  in  tearing  down  the  rights  of 
lordship ! " 

Then  turning  towards  the  Flemings :  "  Come,  look  at  this, 
gentlemen.  Is  it  not  a  fire  which  gloweth  yonder  ?  " 

The  two  men  of  Ghent  drew  near. 

"  A  great  fire,"  said  Guillaume  Rym. 

"  Oh !  "  exclaimed  Coppenole,  whose  eyes  suddenly  flashed, 
"  that  reminds  me  of  the  burning  of  the  house  of  the  Seigneur 
d'Hymbercourt.  There  must  be  a  goodly  revolt  yonder." 

"You  think  so,  Master  Coppenole?"  And  Louis  XL's 
glance  was  almost  as  joyous  as  that  of  the  hosier.  "  Will  it 
not  be  difficult  to  resist  ?  " 

"  Cross  of  God !  Sire !  Your  majesty  will  damage  many 
companies  of  men  of  war  thereon." 

"  Ah !   I !   'tis  different,"  returned  the  king.     "  If  I  willed." 

The  hosier  replied  hardily,  — 

"  If  this  revolt  be  what  I  suppose,  sire,  you  might  will  in 
vain." 

"  Gossip,"  said  Louis  XL,  "  with  the  two  companies  of  my 
unattached  troops  and  one  discharge  of  a  serpentine,  short 
work  is  made  of  a  populace  of  louts." 

The  hosier,  in  spite  of  the  signs  made  to  him  by  Guillaume 
Ryni,  appeared  determined  to  hold  his  own  against  the  khi^r. 

"  Sire,  the  Swiss  were  also  louts.  Monsieur  the  Duke  of 
Burgundy  was  a  great  gentleman,  and  he  turned  up  his  nose 
at  that  rabble  rout.  At  the  battle  of  Grandson,  sire,  he  cried : 
'  Men  of  the  cannon  !  Fire  on  the  villains  ! '  and  he  swore  by 
Saint-George.  But  Advoyer  Scharnachtal  hurled  himself  on 
the  handsome  duke  with  his  battle-club  and  his  people,  and 
when  the  glittering  Burgundian  army  came  in  contact  with 
these  peasants  in  bull  hides,  it  flew  in  pieces  like  a  pane  of 


MONSIEUR   LOUIS    SAYS  HIS  PRAYERS.  249 

glass  at  the  blow  of  a  pebble.  Many  lords  were  then  slain 
by  low-born  knaves  ;  and  Monsieur  de  Chateau-Guyon,  the 
greatest  seigneur  in  Burgundy,  was  found  dead,  with  his  gray 
horse,  in  a  little  marsh  meadow." 

"  Friend,"  returned  the  king,  "  you  are  speaking  of  a  battle. 
The  question  here  is  of  a  mutiny.  And  I  will  gain  the  upper 
hand  of  it  as  soon  as  it  shall  please  me  to  frown." 

The  other  replied  indifferently,  — 

"  That  may  be,  sire  ;  in  that  case,  'tis  because  the  people's 
hour  hath  not  yet  come." 

Guillaume  Eym  considered  it  incumbent  on  him  to  inter- 
vene, — 

"  Master  Coppenole,  you  are  speaking  to  a  puissant  king." 

"  I  know  it,"  replied  the  hosier,  gravely. 

"  Let  him  speak,  Monsieur  Rym,  my  friend,"  said  the  king ; 
"  I  love  this  frankness  of  speech.  My  father,  Charles  the 
Seventh,  was  accustomed  to  say  that  the  truth  was  ailing ;  I 
thought  her  dead,  and  that  she  had  found  no  confessor.  Mas- 
ter Coppenole  undeceiveth  me." 

Then,  laying  his  hand  familiarly  on  Coppenole's  shoulder,  — 

"  You  were  saying,  Master  Jacques  ?  " 

"I  say,  sire,  that  you  may  possibly  be  in  the  right,  that  the 
hour  of  the  people  may  not  yet  have  come  with  you." 

Louis  XL  gazed  at  him  with  his  penetrating  eye,  — 

"  And  when  will  that  hour  come,  master  ?  " 

"  You  will  hear  it  strike." 

"  On  what  clock,  if  you  please  ?  " 

Coppenole,  with  his  tranquil  and  rustic  countenance,  made 
the  king  approach  the  window. 

"  Listen,  sire  !  There  is  here  a  donjon  keep,  a  belfry,  can- 
nons, bourgeois,  soldiers ;  when  the  belfry  shall  hum,  when 
the  cannons  shall  roar,  when  the  donjon  shall  fall  in  ruins 
amid  great  noise,  when  bourgeois  and  soldiers  shall  howl  and 
slay  each  other,  the  hour  will  strike." 

Louis's  face  grew  sombre  and  dreamy.  He  remained 
silent  for  a  moment,  then  he  gently  patted  with  his  hand 
the  thick  wall  of  the  donjon,  as  one  strokes  the  haunches  of 
a  steed. 


250  NOTRE-DAME. 

"  Oh  !  no  ! "  said  he.  "  You  will  not  crumble  so  easily,  will 
you,  my  good  Bastille  ?  " 

And  turning  with  an  abrupt  gesture  towards  the  sturdy 
Fleming,  — 

"  Have  you  never  seen  a  revolt,  Master  Jacques  ?  " 

"  I  have  made  them,"  said  the  hosier. 

"  How  do  you  set  to  work  to  make  a  revolt  ? "  said  the 
king. 

"  Ah  ! "  replied  Coppenole,  "  'tis  not  very  difficult.  There 
are  a  hundred  ways.  In  the  first  place,  there  must  be  discon- 
tent in  the  city.  The  thing  is  not  uncommon.  And  then,  the 
character  of  the  inhabitants.  Those  of  Ghent  are  easy  to 
stir  into  revolt.  They  always  love  the  prince's  son  ;  the  prince, 
never.  Well !  One  morning,  I  will  suppose,  some  one  enters 
my  shop,  and  says  to  me  :  '  Father  Coppenole,  there  is  this 
and  there  is  that,  the  Demoiselle  of  Flanders  wishes  to  save 
her  ministers,  the  grand  bailiff  is  doubling  the  impost  on 
shagreen,  or  something  else,'  —  what  you  will.  I  leave  my 
work  as  it  stands,  I  come  out  of  my  hosier's  stall,  and  I  shout : 
'  To  the  sack  ? '  There  is  always  some  smashed  cask  at  hand. 
I  mount  it,  and  I  say  aloud,  in  the  first  words  that  occur  to 
me,  what  I  have  on  my  heart ;  and  when  one  is  of  the  people, 
sire,  one  always  has  something  on  the  heart.  Then  people 
troop  up,  they  shout,  they  ring  the  alarm  bell,  they  arm  the 
louts  with  what  they  take  from  the  soldiers,  the  market  people 
join  in,  and  they  set  out.  And  it  will  always  be  thus,  so  long 
as  there  are  lords  in  the  seignories,  bourgeois  in  the  bourgs, 
and  peasants  in  the  country." 

"And  against  whom  do  you  thus  rebel  ?  "  inquired  the  king ; 
"  against  your  bailiffs  ?  against  your  lords  ?  " 

"  Sometimes ;  that  depends.  Against  the  duke,  also,  some- 
times." 

Louis  XI.  returned  and  seated  himself,  saying,  with  a 
smile,  — 

"  Ah !  here  they  have  only  got  as  far  as  the  bailiffs." 

At  that  instant  Olivier  le  Daim  returned.  He  was  followed 
by  two  pages,  who  bore  the  king's  toilet  articles ;  but  what 
struck  Louis  XL  was  that  he  was  also  accompanied  by  the 


MONSIEUJi   LOUIS   SATS  HIS  PEAYERS.  251 

provost  of  Paris  and  the  chevalier  of  the  watch,  who  appeared 
to  be  in  consternation.  The  spiteful  barber  also  wore  an  air 
of  consternation,  which  was  one  of  contentment  beneath,  how- 
ever. It  was  he  who  spoke  first. 

"  Sire,  I  ask  your  majesty's  pardon  for  the  calamitous  news 
which  I  bring." 

The  king  turned  quickly  and  grazed  the  mat  on  the  floor 
with  the  feet  of  his  chair,  — 

"  What  does  this  mean  ?  " 

"  Sire,"  resumed  Olivier  le  Daim,  with  the  malicious  air  of 
a  man  who  rejoices  that  he  is  about  to  deal  a  violent  blow, 
"  'tis  not  against  the  bailiff  of  the  courts  that  this  popular 
sedition  is  directed." 

"Against  whom,  then  ?  " 

"Against  you,  sire  ?  ' 

The  aged  king  rose  erect  and  straight  as  a  young  man,  — 

"  Explain  yourself,  Olivier  !  And  guard  your  head  well, 
gossip  ;  for  I  swear  to  you  by  the  cross  of  Saint-L6  that,  if 
you  lie  to  us  at  this  hour,  the  sword  which  severed  the  head 
of  Monsieur  de  Luxembourg  is  not  so  notched  that  it  cannot 
yet  sever  yours  !  " 

The  oath  was  formidable  ;  Louis  XI.  had  only  sworn  twice 
in  the  course  of  his  life  by  the  cross  of  Saint-L6. 

Olivier  opened  his  mouth  to  reply. 


"On  your  knees!"  interrupted  the  king  violently.  "Tris- 
tan, have  an  eye  to  this  man." 

Olivier  knelt  down  and  said  coldly,  — 

"  Sire,  a  sorceress  was  condemned  to  death  by  your  court  of 
parliament.  She  took  refuge  in  Notre-Dame.  The  people  are 
trying  to  take  her  from  thence  by  main  force.  Monsieur  the 
provost  and  monsieur  the  chevalier  of  the  watch,  who  have 
just  come  from  the  riot,  are  here  to  give  me  the  lie  if  this  is 
not  the  truth.  The  populace  is  besieging  Notre-Dame." 

"Yes,  indeed!"  said  the  king  in  a  low  voice,  all  pale  and 
trembling  with  wrath.  "Notre-Dame  !  They  lay  siege  to  our 
Lady,  my  good  mistress  in  her  cathedral!  —  Kise,  Olivier. 
You  are  right.  I  give  you  Simon  Radin's  charge.  You  are 


252  NOTRE-DAUE. 

right.  'Tis  I  whom  they  are  attacking.  The  witch  is  under 
the  protection  of  this  church,  the  church  is  under  my  protec- 
tion. And  I  thought  that  they  were  acting  against  the  bailiff ! 
'Tis  against  myself  ! " 

Then,  rendered  young  by  fury,  he  began  to  walk  up  and 
down  with  long  strides.  He  no  longer  laughed,  he  was  ter- 
rible, he  went  and  came  ;  the  fox  was  changed  into  a  hyaena. 
He  seemed  suffocated  to  such  a  degree  that  he  could  not 
speak ;  his  lips  moved,  and  his  fleshless  fists  were  clenched. 
All  at  once  he  raised  his  head,  his  hollow  eye  appeared  full 
of  light,  and  his  voice  burst  forth  like  a  clarion  :  "  Down  with 
them,  Tristan  !  A  heavy  hand  for  these  rascals  !  Go,  Tris- 
tan, my  friend  !  slay  !  slay  ! " 

This  eruption  having  passed,  he  returned  to  his  seat,  and 
said  with  cold  and  concentrated  wrath,  — 

"  Here,  Tristan  !  There  are  here  with  us  in  the  Bastille  the 
fifty  lances  of  the  Vicornte  de  Gif,  which  makes  three  hun- 
dred horse  :  you  will  take  them.  There  is  also  the  company 
of  our  unattached  archers  of  Monsieur  de  Chdteaupers  :  you 
will  take  it.  You  are  provost  of  the  marshals  ;  you  have  the 
men  of  your  provostship :  you  will  take  them.  At  the  Hotel 
Saint-Pol  you  will  find  forty  archers  of  monsieur  the  dau- 
phin's new  guard  :  you  will  take  them.  And,  with  all  these, 
you  will  hasten  to  Notre-Dame.  Ah !  messieurs,  louts  of 
Paris,  do  you  fling  yourselves  thus  against  the  crown  of 
France,  the  sanctity  of  Notre-Dame,  and  the  peace  of  this 
commonwealth !  Exterminate,  Tristan  !  exterminate  !  and  let 
not  a  single  one  escape,  except  it  be  for  Montfaucon." 

Tristan  bowed.     "  'Tis  well,  sire  " 

He  added,  after  a  silence,  "And  what  shall  I  do  with  the 
sorceress  ?  " 

This  question  caused  the  king  to  meditate. 

"  Ah !  "  said  he,'  "  the  sorceress  !  Monsieur  d'Estouteville, 
what  did  the  people  wish  to  do  with  her  ?  " 

"  Sire,"  replied  the  provost  of  Paris,  "  I  imagine  that  since 
the  populace  has  come  to  tear  her  from  her  asylum  in  Xotre- 
D.ime,  'tis  because  that  impunity  wounds  them,  and  they 
desire  to  hang  her." 


MOXSIEUR   LOUIS  SAYS  HIS  PRATERS.  253 

The  king  appeared  to  reflect  deeply  :  then,  addressing  Tris- 
tan 1'Hermite,  "  Well !  gossip,  exterminate  the  people  and 
hang  the  sorceress." 

"That's  it,"  said  Rym  in  a  low  tone  to  Coppenole,  "pun- 
ish the  people  for  willing  a  thing,  and  then  do  what  they 
wish." 

"  Enough,  sire,"  replied  Tristan.  "  If  the  sorceress  is 
still  in  Notre-Dame,  must  she  be  seized  in  spite  of  the 
sanctuary  ?  " 

"  Pasque-Dieu  !  the  sanctuary  !  "  said  the  king,  scratching 
his  ear.  "  But  the  woman  must  be  hung,  nevertheless." 

Here,  as  though  seized  with  a  sudden  idea,  he  flung  himself 
on  his  knees-  before  his  chair,  took  off  his  hat,  placed  it  on  the 
seat,  and  gazing  devoutly  at  one  of  the  leaden  amulets  which 
loaded  it  down,  "  Oh ! "  said  he,  with  clasped  hands,  "  our 
Lady  of  Paris,  my  gracious  patroness,  pardon  me.  I  will  only 
do  it  this  once.  This  criminal  must  be  punished.  I  assure 
you,  madame  the  virgin,  my  good  mistress,  that  she  is  a  sorce- 
ress who  is  not  worthy  of  your  amiable  protection.  You 
know,  madame,  that  many  very  pious  princes  have  over- 
stepped the  privileges  of  the  churches  for  the  glory  of  God 
and  the  necessities  of  the  State.  Saint  Hugues,  bishop  of 
England,  permitted  King  Edward  to  hang  a  witch  in  his 
church.  Saint-Louis  of  France,  my  master,  transgressed,  with 
the  same  object,  the  church  of  Monsieur  Saint-Paul ;  and 
Monsieur  Alphonse,  son  of  the  king  of  Jerusalem,  the  very 
church  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre.  Pardon  me,  then,  for  this 
once.  Our  Lady  of  Paris,  I  will  never  do  so  again,  and  I  will 
give  you  a  fine  statue  of  silver,  like  the  one  which  I  gave  last 
year  to  Our  Lady  of  Ecouys.  So  be  it." 

He  made  the  sign  of  the  cross,  rose,  donned  his  hat  once 
more,  and  said  to  Tristan,  — 

"Be  diligent,  gossip.  Take  Monsieur  Chfiteaupers  with 
you.  You  will  cause  the  tocsin  to  be  sounded.  You  will 
crush  the  populace.  You  will  seize  the  witch.  'Tis  said. 
And  I  mean  the  business  of  the  execution  to  be  done  by  you. 
You  will  render  me  an  account  of  it.  Come,  Olivier,  I  shall 
not  go  to  bed  this  night.  Shave  me." 


254 


NOTRE-DAME. 


Tristan  1'Hermite  bowed  and  departed.  Then  the  king, 
dismissing  Rym  and  Coppenole  with  a  gesture,  — 

"  God  guard  you,  messieurs,  my  good  friends  the  Flemings. 
Go,  take  a  little  repose.  The  night  advances,  and  we  are 
nearer  the  morning  than  the  evening." 

Both  retired  and  gained  their  apartments  under  the  guid- 
ance of  the  captain  of  the  Bastille.  Coppenole  said  to  Guil- 
laume  Eym,  — 

"  Hum !  I  have  had  enough  of  that  coughing  king !  I  have 
seen  Charles  of  Burgundy  drunk,  and  he  was  less  malignant 
than  Louis  XI.  when  ailing." 

"  Master  Jacques,"  replied  Rym,  "  'tis  because  wine  renders 
kings  less  cruel  than  does  barley  water." 


CHAPTER   VI. 

LITTLE    SWOKD    IN    POCKET. 

ON  emerging  from  the  Bastille,  Gringoire  descended  the  Rue 
Saint-Antoine  with  the  swiftness  of  a  runaway  horse.  On 
arriving  at  the  Baudoyer  gate,  he  walked  straight  to  the  stone 
cross  which  rose  in  the  middle  of  that  place,  as  though  he 
were  able  to  distinguish  in  the  darkness  the  figure  of  a  man 
clad  and  cloaked  in  black,  who  was  seated  on  the  steps  of  the 
cross. 

"  Is  it  you,  master  ?  "  said  Gringoire. 

The  personage  in  black  rose. 

"  Death  and  passion  !  You  make  me  boil,  Gringoire.  The 
man  on  the  tower  of  Saint-Gervais  has  just  cried  half-past 
one  o'clock  in  the  morning." 

"  Oh,"  retorted  Gringoire,  "'tis  no  fault  of  mine,  but  of  the 
watch  and  the  king.  I  have  just  had  a  narrow  escape.  I 
always  just  miss  being  hung.  'Tis  my  predestination." 

"You  lack  everything,"  said  the  other.  "But  come  quickly. 
Have  you  the  password  ?  " 

"  Fancy,  master,  I  have  seen  the  king.  I  come  from  him. 
He  wears  fustian  breeches.  'Tis  an  adventure." 

"  Oh !  distaff  of  words !  Avhat  is  your  adventure  to  me  ! 
Have  you  the  password  of  the  outcasts  ?  " 

"  I  have  it.     Be  at  ease.     '  Little  sword  in  pocket.'  " 

"Good.  Otherwise,  we  could  not  make  our  way  as  far  as 
the  church.  The  outcasts  bar  the  streets.  Fortunately,  it 

255 


256  NOTRE-DAME. 

appears  that  they  have  encountered  resistance.  We  may  still 
arrive  in  time." 

"  Yes,  master,  but  how  are  we  to  get  into  Notre-Danie  ?  " 

"  I  have  the  key  to  the  tower." 

"  And  how  are  we  to  get  out  again  ?  " 

"  Behind  the  cloister  there  is  a  little  door  which  opens  oc 
the  Terrain  and  the  water.  I  have  taken  the  key  to  it,  and  ] 
moored  a  boat  there  this  morning." 

"I  have  had  a  beautiful  escape  from  being  hung!"  Grin- 
goire  repeated. 

"Eh,  quick  !  come  ! "  said  the  other. 

Both  descended  towards  the  city  with  long  strides. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

CHATEAUPEBS    TO    THE    RESCUE. 

THE  reader  will,  perhaps,  recall  the  critical  situation  in 
which  we  left  Quasimodo.  The  brave  deaf  man,  assailed  on 
all  sides,  had  lost,  if  not  all  courage,  at  least  all  hope  of  sav- 
ing, not  himself  (he  was  not  thinking  of  himself),  but  the 
gypsy.  He  ran  distractedly  along  the  gallery.  Notre-Dame 
was  on  the  point  of  being  taken  by  storm  by  the  outcasts. 
All  at  once,  a  great  galloping  of  horses  filled  the  neighboring 
streets,  and,  with  a  long  file  of  torches  and  a  thick  column  of 
cavaliers,  with  free  reins  and  lances  in  rest,  these  furious 
sounds  debouched  on  the  Place  like  a  hurricane,  — 

"France!  France!  cut  down  the  louts!  Chateaupers  to 
the  rescue  !  Provostship  !  Provostship !  " 

The  frightened  vagabonds  wheeled  round. 

Quasimodo  who  did  not  hear,  saw  the  naked  swords,  the 
torches,  the  irons  of  the  pikes,  all  that  cavalry,  at  the  head  of 
which  he  recognized  Captain  Phoebus ;  he  beheld  the  confusion 
of  the  outcasts,  the  terror  of  some,  the  disturbance  among  the 
bravest  of  them,  and  from  this  unexpected  succor  he  recov- 
ered so  much  strength,  that  he  hurled  from  the  church  the 
first  assailants  who  were  already  climbing  into  the  gallery. 

It  was,  in  fact,  the  king's  troops  who  had  arrived. 

The  vagabonds  behaved  bravely.  They  defended  themselves 
like  desperate  men.  Caught  on  the  flank,  by  the  Rue  Saint- 

257 


258  XOTRE-DA  ME. 

Pierre-aux-Boeufs,  and  in  the  rear 'through  the  Rue  du  Parvis, 
driven  to  bay  against  Notre-Dame,  which  they  still  assailed 
and  Quasimodo  defended,  at  the  same  time  besiegers  and  be- 
sieged, they  were  in  the  singular  situation  in  which  Comte 
Henri  Harcourt,  Taurinum  obsessor  idem  et  olsessus,  as  his 
epitaph  says,  found  himself  later  on,  at  the  famous  siege  of 
Turin,  in  1640,  between  Prince  Thomas  of  Savoy,  whom  he 
was  besieging,  and  the  Marquis  de  Leganez,  who  was  block- 
ading him. 

The  battle  was  frightful.  There  was  a  dog's  tooth  for  wolf's 
flesh,  as  P.  Mathieu  says.  The  king's  cavaliers,  in  whose 
midst  Phoebus  de  Chateaupers  bore  himself  valiantly,  gave  no 
quarter,  and  the  slash  of  the  sword  disposed  of  those  who 
escaped  the  thrust  of  the  lance.  The  outcasts,  badly  armed 
foamed  and  bit  with  rage.  Men,  women,  children,  hurled 
themselves  on  the  cruppers  and  the  breasts  of  the  horses,  and 
hung  there  like  cats,  with  teeth,  finger  nails  and  toe  nails. 
Others  struck  the  archers'  in  the  face  with  their  torches. 
Others  thrust  iron  hooks  into  the  necks  of  the  cavaliers  and 
dragged  them  down.  They  slashed  in  pieces  those  who  fell. 

One  was  noticed  who  had  a  large,  glittering  scythe,  and  who, 
for  a  long  time,  mowed  the  legs  of  the  horses.  He  was  fright- 
ful. He  was  singing  a  ditty,  with  a  nasal  intonation,  he 
swung  and  drew  back  his  scythe  incessantly.  At  every  blow 
he  traced  around  him  a  great  circle  of  severed  limbs.  He 
advanced  thus  into  the  very  thickest  of  the  cavalry,  with  the 
tranquil  slowness,  the  lolling  of  the  head  and  the  regular 
breathing  of  a  harvester  attacking  a  field  of  wheat.  It  was 
Clopin  Trouillefou.  A  shot  from  an  arquebus  laid  him  low. 

In  the  meantime,  windows  had  been  opened  again.  The 
neighbors  hearing  the  war  cries  of  the  king's  troops,  had  min- 
gled in  the  affray,  and  bullets  rained  upon  the  outcasts  from 
every  story.  The  Parvis  was  filled  with  a  thick  smoke,  which 
the  musketry  streaked  with  flame.  Through  it  one  could  con- 
fusedly distinguish  the  front  of  Notre-Dame,  and  the  decrepit 
Hotel-Dieu  with  some  wan  invalids  gazing  down  from  the 
heights  of  its  roof  all  checkered  with  dormer  windows. 

At  length  the  vagabonds  gave  way.     Weariness,  the  lack  of 


CHATEAUPERS   TO   THE  RESCUE. 


259 


good  weapons,  the  fright  of  this  surprise,  the  musketry  from 
the  windows,  the  valiant  attack  of  the  king's  troops,  all  over- 
whelmed them.  They  forced  the  line  of  assailants,  and  fled 
in  every  direction,  leaving  the  Parvis  encumbered  with  dead. 

When  Quasimodo,  who  had  not  ceased  to  fight  for  a  mo- 
ment, beheld  this  rout,  he  fell  on  his  knees  and  raised  his 
hands  to  heaven ;  then,  intoxicated  with  joy,  he  ran,  he 
ascended  with  the  swiftness  of  a  bird  to  that  cell,  the 
approaches  to  which  he  had  so  intrepidly  defended.  He  had 
but  one  thought  now ;  it  was  to  kneel  before  her  whom  he 
had  just  saved  for  the  second  time. 

AVhen  he  entered  the  cell,  he  found  it  empty. 


BOOK  ELEVENTH. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE    LITTLE    SHOE. 

LA  ESMERALDA  was  sleeping  at  the  moment  when  the  out- 
casts assailed  the  church. 

Soon  the  ever-increasing  uproar  around  the  edifice,  and  the 
uneasy  bleating  of  her  goat  which  had  been  awakened,  had 
roused  her  from  her  slumbers.  She  had  sat  up,  she  had  lis- 
tened, she  had  looked ;  then,  terrified  by  the  light  and  noise, 
she  had  rushed  from  her  cell  to  see.  The  aspect  of  the  Place, 
the  vision  which  was  moving  in  it,  the  disorder  of  that  noc- 
turnal assault,  that  hideous  crowd,  leaping  like  a  cloud  of 
frogs,  half  seen  in  the  gloom,  the  croaking  of  that  hoarse 
multitude,  those  few  red  torches  running  and  crossing  each 
other  in  the  darkness  like  the  meteors  which  streak  the 
misty  surfaces  of  marshes,  this  whole  scene  produced  upon  her 
the  effect  of  a  mysterious  battle  between  the  phantoms  of  the 
witches'  sabbath  and  the  stone  monsters  of  the  church.  Im- 
bued from  her  very  infancy  with  the  superstitions  of  the 
Bohemian  tribe,  her  first  thought  was  that  she  had  caught  the 
strange  beings  peculiar  to  the  night,  in  their  deeds  of  witch- 
craft. Then  she  ran  in  terror  to  cower  in  her  cell,  asking  of 
her  pallet  some  less  terrible  nightmare. 

261 


262  NOTRE-DAME. 

But  little  by  little  the  first  vapors  of  terror  had  been  dissi- 
pated ;  from  the  constantly  increasing  noise,  and  from  many 
other  signs  of  reality,  she  felt  herself  besieged  not  by  spectres, 
but  by  human  beings.  Then  her  fear,  though  it  did  not  in- 
crease, changed  its  character.  She  had  dreamed  of  the  pos- 
sibility of  a  popular  mutiny  to  tear  her  from  her  asylum. 
The  idea  of  once  more  recovering  life,  hope,  Phosbus,  who  was 
ever  present  in  her  future,  the  extreme  helplessness  of  her 
condition,  flight  cut  off,  no  support,  her  abandonment,  her 
isolation,  — these  thoughts  and  a  thousand  others  overwhelmed 
her.  She  fell  upon  her  knees,  with  her  head  on  her  bed,  her 
hands  clasped  over  her  head,  full  of  anxiety  and  tremors,  and, 
although  a  gypsy,  an  idolater,  and  a  pagan,  she  began  to 
entreat  with  sobs,  mercy  from  the  good  Christian  God,  and 
to  pray  to  our  Lady,  her  hostess.  For  even  if  one  believes 
in  nothing,  there  are  moments  in  life  when  one  is  always  of 
the  religion  of  the  temple  which  is  nearest  at  hand. 

She  remained  thus  prostrate  for  a  very  long  time,  trembling 
in  truth,  more  than  praying,  chilled  by  the  ever-closer  breath 
of  that  furious  multitude,  understanding  nothing  of  this  out- 
burst, ignorant  of  what  was  being  plotted,  what  was  being 
done,  what  they  wanted,  but  foreseeing  a  terrible  issue. 

In  the  midst  of  this  anguish,  she  heard  some  one  walking 
near  her.  She  turned  round.  Two  men,  one  of  whom  carried 
a  lantern,  had  just  entered  her  cell.  She  uttered  a  feeble  cry. 

"  Fear  nothing,"  said  a  voice  which  was  not  unknown  to  her, 
"it  is  I." 

"  Who  are  you  ?  "  she  asked. 

'•Pierre  Gringoire." 

This  name  reassured  her.  She  raised  her  eyes  once  more, 
and  recognized  the  poet  in  very  fact.  But  there  stood  beside 
him  a  black  figure  veiled  from  head  to  foot,  which  struck  her 
by  its  silence. 

"Oh!"  continued  Gringoire  in  a  tone  of  reproach,  "Djali 
recognized  me  before  you !  " 

The  little  goat  had  not,  in  fact,  waited  for  Gringoire  to  an- 
nounce his  name.  No  sooner  had  he  entered  than  it  rubbed 
itself  gently  against  his  knees,  covering  the  poet  with  caresses 


THE  LITTLE  SHOE.  263 

and  with  white  hairs,  for  it  was  shedding  its  hair.  Gringoire 
returned  the  caresses. 

"  Who  is  this  with  you  ?  "  said  the  gypsy,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Be  at  ease,"  replied  Gringoire.     "  "Tis  one  of  my  friends." 

Then  the  philosopher  setting  his  lantern  on  the  ground, 
crouched  upon  the  stones,  and  exclaimed  enthusiastically,  as 
he  pressed  Djali  in  his  arms,  — 

"  Oh  !  'tis  a  graceful  beast,  more  considerable  no  doubt,  for 
it's  neatness  than  for  its  size,  but  ingenious,  subtle,  and  let- 
tered as  a  grammarian !  Let  us  see,  my  Djali,  hast  thou  for- 
gotten any  of  thy  pretty  tricks  ?  How  does  Master  Jacques 
Charmolue  ?  .  .  ." 

The  man  in  black  did  not  allow  him  to  finish.  He  ap- 
proached Gringoire  and  shook  him  roughly  by  the  shoulder. 
Gringoire  rose. 

" 'Tis  true,"  said  he  :  "I  forgot  that  we  are  in  haste.  But 
that  is  no  reason  master,  for  getting  furious  with  people  in 
this  manner.  My  dear  and  lovely  child,  your  life  is  in  danger, 
and  Dj  all's  also.  They  want  to  hang  you  again.  We  are 
your  friends,  and  we  have  come  to  save  you.  Follow  us." 

"  Is  it  true  ?  "  she  exclaimed  in  dismay. 

"  Yes,  perfectly  true.     Come  quickly ! " 

"I  am  willing,"  she  stammered.  "But  why  does  not  your 
friend  speak  ?  " 

"  Ah  ! "  said  Gringoire,  "  'tis  because  his  father  and  mother 
were  fantastic  people  who  made  him  of  a  taciturn  tempera- 
ment." 

She  was  obliged  to  content  herself  with  this  explanation. 
Gringoire  took  her  by  the  hand ;  his  companion  picked  up  the 
lantern  and  walked  on  in  front.  Fear  stunned  the  young  girl. 
She  allowed  herself  to  be  led  away.  The  goat  followed  them, 
frisking,  so  joyous  at  seeing  Gringoire  again  that  it  made  him 
stumble  every  moment  by  thrusting  its  horns  between  his 
legs. 

"Such  is  life,"  said  the  philosopher,  every  time  that  he 
came  near  falling  down ;  "  'tis  often  our  best  friends  who 
cause  us  to  be  overthroAvn." 

They  rapidly  descended  the  staircase  of  the  toAvers,  crossed 


264  NOTRE-DAME. 

the  church,  full  of  shadows  and  solitude,  and  all  rever- 
berating with  uproar,  which  formed  a  frightful  contrast,  and 
emerged  into  the  courtyard  of  the  cloister  by  the  red  door. 
The  cloister  was  deserted ;  the  canons  had  fled  to  the  bishop's 
palace  in  order  to  pray  together ;  the  courtyard  was  empty,  a 
few  frightened  lackeys  were  crouching  in  dark  corners.  They 
directed  their  steps  towards  the  door  which  opened  from  this 
court  upon  the  Terrain.  The  man  in  black  opened  it  with  a 
key  which  he  had  about  him.  Our  readers  are  aware  that  the 
Terrain  was  a  tongue  of  land  enclosed  by  walls  on  the  side  of 
the  City  and  belonging  to  the  chapter  of  Notre-Dame,  which 
terminated  the  island  on  the  east,  behind  the  church.  They 
found  this  enclosure  perfectly  deserted.  There  was  here  less 
tumult  in  the  air.  The  roar  of  the  outcasts'  assault  reached 
them  more  confusedly  and  less  clamorously.  The  fresh  breeze 
which  follows  the  current  of  a  stream,  rustled  the  leaves  of 
the  only  tree  planted  on  the  point  of  the  Terrain,  Avith  a  noise 
that  was  already  perceptible.  But  they  were  still  very  close 
to  danger.  The  nearest  edifices  to  them  were  the  bishop's 
palace  and  the  church.  It  was  plainly  evident  that  there  was 
great  internal  commotion  in  the  bishop's  palace.  Its  shadowy 
mass  was  all  furrowed  with  lights  which  flitted  from  window 
to  window ;  as,  when  one  has  just  burned  paper,  there  remains 
a  sombre  edifice  of  ashes  in  which  bright  sparks  run  a  thou- 
sand eccentric  courses.  Beside  them,  the  enormous  towers  of 
Notre-Dame,  thus  viewed  from  behind,  with  the  long  nave 
above  which  they  rise  cut  out  in  black  against  the  red  and 
vast  light  which  filled  the  Parvis,  resembled  two  gigantic 
andirons  of  some  cyclopean  fire-grate. 

What  was  to  be  seen  of  Paris  on  all  sides  wavered  before 
the  eye  in  a  gloom  mingled  with  light.  Rembrandt  has  such 
backgrounds  to  his  pictures. 

The  man  with  the  lantern  walked  straight  to  the  point  of 
the  Terrain.  There,  at  the  very  brink  of  the  water,  stood  the 
wormeaten  remains  of  a  fence  of  posts  latticed  with  laths, 
whereon  a  low  vine  spread  out  a  few  thin  branches  like  the 
fingers  of  an  outspread  hand.  Behind,  in  the  shadow  cast  by 
this  trellis,  a  little  boat  lay  concealed.  The  man  made  a  sign 


THE  LITTLE  SHOE.  265 

to  Gringoire  and  his  companion  to  enter.  The  goat  followed 
them.  The  man  was  the  last  to  step  in.  Then  he  cut  the 
boat's  moorings,  pushed  it  from  the  shore  with  a  long  boat- 
hook,  and,  seizing  two  oars,  seated  himself  in  the  bow,  rowing 
with  all  his  might  towards  midstream.  The  Seine  is  very 
rapid  at  this  point,  and  he  had  a  good  deal  of  trouble  in 
leaving  the  point  of  the  island. 

Gringoire's  first  care  on  entering  the  boat  was  to  place  the 
goat  on  his  knees.  He  took  a  position  in  the  stern ;  and  the 
young  girl,  whom  the  stranger  inspired  with  an  indefinable 
uneasiness,  seated  herself  close  to  the  poet. 

When  our  philosopher  felt  the  boat  sway,  he  clapped  his 
hands  and  kissed  Djali  between  the  horns. 

"  Oh !  "  said  he,  "  now  we  are  safe,  all  four  of  us." 

He  added  with  the  air  of  a  profound  thinker,  "  One  is 
indebted  sometimes  to  fortune,  sometimes  to  ruse,  for'  the 
happy  issue  of  great  enterprises." 

The  boat  made  its  way  slowly  towards  the  right  shore.  The 
young  girl  watched  the  unknown  man  with  secret  terror.  He 
had  carefully  turned  off  the  light  of  his  dark  lantern.  A 
glimpse  could  be  caught  of  him  in  the  obscurity,  in  the  bow 
of  the  boat,  like  a  spectre.  His  cowl,  which  Avas  still  lowered, 
formed  a  sort  of  mask ;  and  every  time  that  he  spread  his 
arms,  upon  which  hung  large  black  sleeves,  as  he  rowed,  one 
would  have  said  they  were  two  huge  bat's  wings.  Moreover, 
he  had  not  yet  uttered  a  word  or  breathed  a  syllable.  No 
other  noise  was  heard  in  the  boat  than  the  splashing  of  the 
oars,  mingled  with  the  rippling  of  the  water  along  her  sides. 

"  On  my  soul !  "  exclaimed  Gringoire  suddenly,  "  we  are  as 
cheerful  and  joyous  as  young  owls  !  We  preserve  the  silence 
of  Pythagoreans  or  fishes !  Pasque-Dieu  !  my  friends,  I  should 
greatly  like  to  have  some  one  speak  to  me.  The  human  voice 
is  music  to  the  human  ear.  'Tis  not  I  who  say  that,  but 
Didymus  of  Alexandria,  and  they  are  illustrious  words. 
Assuredly,  Didymus  of  Alexandria  is  no  mediocre  philoso- 
pher. —  One  word,  my  lovely  child !  say  but  one  word  to  me, 
I  entreat  you.  By  the  way,  you  had  a  droll  and  peculiar 
little  pout ;  do  you  still  make  it  ?  Do  you  know,  my  dear, 


266  NOTRE-DAME. 

that  parliament  hath  full  jurisdiction  over  all  places  of  asy- 
lum, and  that  you  were  running  a  great  risk  in  your  little 
chamber  at  Notre-Dame  ?  Alas !  the  little  bird  trochylus 
maketh  its  nest  in  the  jaws  of  the  crocodile.  —  Master,  here 
is  the  inoon  re-appearing.  If  only  they  do  not  perceive  us. 
We  are  doing  a  laudable  thing  in  saving  mademoiselle,  and 
yet  we  should  be  hung  by  order  of  the  king  if  we  were  caught. 
Alas !  human  actions  are  taken  by  two  handles.  That  is 
branded  with  disgrace  in  one  which  is  crowned  in  another.  He 
admires  Cicero  who  blames  Catiline.  Is  it  not  so,  master  ? 
What  say  you  to  this  philosophy  ?  I  possess  philosophy  by 
instinct,  by  nature,  ut  apes  geometriam.  —  Come !  no  one 
answers  me.  What  unpleasant  moods  you  two  are  in !  I 
must  do  all  the  talking  alone.  That  is  what  we  call  a  mono- 
logue in  tragedy. — Pasyue-Dieu  f  I  must  inform  you  that  I 
have  just  seen  the  king,  Louis  XI.,  and  that  I  have  caught 
this  oath  from  him,  —  Pasque-Dieuf  They  are  still  making  a 
hearty  howl  in  the  city. — 'Tis  avillanous,  malicious  old  king. 
He  is  all  swathed  in  furs.  He  still  owes  me  the  money  for 
my  epithalamium,  and  he  came  within  a  nick  of  hanging  me 
this  evening,  which  would  have  been  very  inconvenient  to 
me.  —  He  is  niggardly  towards  men  of  merit.  He  ought  to 
read  the  four  books  of  Salvien  of  Cologne,  Adversus  Ar<r- 
ritiam.  In  truth !  'Tis  a  paltry  king  in  his  ways  with  men  of 
letters,  and  one  who  commits  very  barbarous  cruelties.  He  is 
a  sponge,  to  soak  money  raised  from  the  people.  His  saving 
is  like  the  spleen  which  swelleth  Avitli  the  leanness  of  all  the 
other  members.  Hence  complaints  against  the  hardness  of 
the  times  become  murmurs  against  the  prince.  Under  this 
gentle  and  pious  sire,  the  gallows  crack  with  the  hung,  the 
blocks  rot  with  blood,  the  prisons  burst  like  over  full  bellies. 
This  king  hath  one  hand  which  grasps,  and  one  which  hangs. 
He  is  the  procurator  of  Dame  Tax  and  Monsieur  Gibbet. 
The  great  are  despoiled  of  their  dignities,  and  the  little 
incessantly  overwhelmed  with  fresh  oppressions.  He  is  an 
exorbitant  prince.  I  love  not  this  monarch.  And  you, 
master  ?  " 

The  man  in  black  let  the  garrulous  poet  chatter  on.     He 


THE  LITTLE  SHOE.  267 

continued  to  struggle  against  the  violent  and  narroAV  current, 
which  separates  the  prow  of  the  City  and  the  stem  of  the 
island  of  Notre  Dame,  which  we  call  to-day  the  Isle  St.  Louis. 

"  By  the  way,  master ! "  continued  Gringoire  suddenly. 
"  At  the  moment  when  we  arrived  on  the  Parvis,  through  the 
enraged  outcasts,  did  your  reverence  observe  that  poor  little 
devil  whose  skull  your  deaf  man  was  just  cracking  on  the 
railing  of  the  gallery  of  the  kings  ?  I  am  near  sighted  and  I 
could  not  recognize  him.  Do  you  know  who  he  could  be  ?  " 

The  stranger  answered  not  a  word.  But  he  suddenly  ceased 
rowing,  his  arms  fell  as  though  broken,  his  head  sank  on  his 
breast,  and  la  Esmeralda  heard  him  sigh  convulsively.  She 
shuddered.  She  had  heard  such  sighs  before. 

The  boat,  abandoned  to  itself,  floated  for  several  minutes 
with  the  stream.  But  the  man  in  black  finally  recovered  him- 
self, seized  the  oars  once  more  and  began  to  row  against  the 
current.  He  doubled  the  point  of  the  Isle  of  Notre  Dame, 
and  made  for  the  landing-place  of  the  Port  au  Foin. 

"  Ah ! "  said  Gringoire,  "  yonder  is  the  Barbeau  mansion.  — 
Stay,  master,  look  :  that  group  of  black  roofs  which  make 
such  singular  angles  yonder,  above  that  heap  of  black,  fibrous 
grimy,  dirty  clouds,  where  the  moon  is  completely  crushed 
and  spread  out  like  the  yolk  of  an  egg  whose  shell  is  broken.  — 
'Tis  a  fine  mansion.  There  is  a  chapel  crowned  with  a  small 
vault  full  of  very  well  carved  enrichments.  Above,  you  can 
see  the  bell  tower,  very  delicately  pierced:  There  is  also  a 
pleasant  garden,  which  consists  of  a  pond,  an  aviary,  an  echo, 
a  mall,  a  labyrinth,  a  house  for  wild  beasts,  and  a  quantity  of 
leafy  alleys  very  agreeable  to  Venus.  There  is  also  a  rascal 
of  a  tree  which  is  called  '  the  lewd,'  because  it  favored  the 
pleasures  of  a  famous  princess  and  a  constable  of  France,  who 
was  a  gallant  and  a  wit.  —  Alas  !  we  poor  philosophers  are  to 
a  constable  as  a  plot  of  cabbages  or  a  radish  bed  to  the  garden 
of  the  Louvre.  What  matters  it,  after  all  ?  human  life,  for 
the  great  as  well  as  for  us,  is  a  mixture  of  good  and  evil.  Pain 
is  always  by  the  side  of  joy,  the  spondee  by  the  dactyl.  — 
Master,  I  must  relate  to  you  the  history  of  the  Barbeau  man- 
sion. It  ends  in  tragic  fashion.  It  was  in  1319,  in  the  reign 


268  NOTRE-DAME. 

of  Philippe  V.,  the  longest  reign  of  the  kings  of  France.  The 
moral  of  the  story  is  that  the  temptations  of  the  flesh  are 
pernicious  and  malignant.  Let  us  not  rest  our  glance  too  long 
on  our  neighbor's  wife,  however  gratified  our  senses  may  be 
by  her  beauty.  Fornication  is  a  very  libertine  thought. 
Adultery  is  a  prying  into  the  pleasures  of  others  —  Ohe !  the 
noise  yonder  is  redoubling ! " 

The  tumult  around  Notre  Dame  was,  in  fact,  increasing. 
They  listened.  Cries  of  victory  were  heard  with  tolerable 
distinctness.  All  at  once,  a  hundred  torches,  the  light  of 
which  glittered  upon  the  hemlets  of  men  at  arms,  spread  over 
the  church  at  all  heights,  on  the  towers,  on  the  galleries,  on 
the  flying  buttresses.  These  torches  seemed  to  be  in  search 
of  something;  and  soon  distant  clamors  reached  the  fugi- 
tives distinctly :  —  "  The  gypsy  !  the  sorceress !  death  to  the 
gypsy ! " 

The  unhappy  girl  dropped  her  head  upon  her  hands,  and 
the  unknown  began  to  row  furiously  towards  the  shore.  Mean- 
while our  philosopher  reflected.  He  clasped  the  goat  in  his 
arms,  and  gently  drew  away  from  the  gypsy,  who  pressed 
closer  and  closer  to  him,  as  though  to  the  only  asylum  which 
remained  to  her. 

It  is  certain  that  Gringoire  was  enduring  cruel  perplexity. 
He  was  thinking  that  the  goat  also,  "  according  to  existing 
law,"  would  be  hung  if  recaptured ;  which  would  be  a  great 
pity,  poor  Djali !  'that  he  had  thus  two  condemned  creatures 
attached  to  him ;  that  his  companion  asked  no  better  than  to 
take  charge  of  the  gypsy.  A  violent  combat  began  between 
his  thoughts,  in  which,  like  the  Jupiter  of  the  Iliad,  he  weighed 
in  turn  the  gypsy  and  the  goat ;  and  he  looked  at  them  alter- 
nately with  eyes  moist  with  tears,  saying  between  his  teeth  : 
"  But  I  cannot  save  you  both  !  " 

A  shock  informed  them  that  the  boat  had  reached  the  land 
at  last.  The  uproar  still  filled  the  city.  The  unknown  rose, 
approached  the  gypsy,  and  endeavored  to  take  her  arm  to 
assist  her  to  alight.  She  repulsed  him  and  clung  to  the  sleeve 
of  Gringoire,  who,  in  his  turn,  absorbed  in  the  goat,  almost 
repulsed  her.  Then  she  sprang  alone  from  the  boat.  She 


THE  LITTLE  SHOE.  269 

was  so  troubled  that  she  did  not  know  what  she  did  or  whither 
she  was  going.  Thus  she  remained  for  a  moment,  stunned, 
watching  the  water  flow  past;  when  she  gradually  returned  to 
her  senses,  she  found  herself  alone  on  the  wharf  with  the 
unknown.  It  appears  that  Gringoire  had  taken  advantage  of 
the  moment  of  debarcation  to  slip  away  with  the  goat  into  the 
block  of  houses  of  the  Rue  Grenier-sur-1'Eau. 

The  poor  gypsy  shivered  when  she  beheld  herself  alone 
with  this  man.  She  tried  to  speak,  to  cry  out,  to  call  Grin- 
goire ;  her  tongue  was  dumb  in  her  mouth,  and  no  sound  left 
her  lips.  All  at  once  she  felt  the  stranger's  hand  on  hers. 
It  was  a  strong,  cold  hand.  Her  teeth  chattered,  she  turned 
paler  than  the  ray  of  moonlight  which  illuminated  her.  The 
man  spoke  not  a  work.  He  began  to  ascend  towards  the 
Place  de  Greve,  holding  her  by  the  hand. 

At  that  moment,  she  had  a  vague  feeling  that  destiny  is  an 
irresistible  force.  She  had  no  more  resistance  left  in  her, 
she  allowed  herself  to  be  dragged  along,  running  while  he 
walked.  At  this  spot  the  quay  ascended.  But  it  seemed  to 
her  as  though  she  were  descending  a  slope. 

She  gazed  about  her  on  all  sides.  Xot  a  single  passer-by. 
The  quay  was  absolutely  deserted.  She  heard  no  sound,  she 
felt  no  people  moving  save  in  the  tumultuous  and  glowing 
city,  from  which  she  was  separated  only  by  an  arm  of  the 
Seine,  and  whence  her  name  reached  her,  mingled  with  cries 
of  "  Death ! "  The  rest  of  Paris  was  spread  around  her  in 
great  blocks  of  shadows. 

Meanwhile,  the  stranger  continued  to  drag  her  along  with 
the  same  silence  and  the  same  rapidity.  She  had  no  recollec- 
tion of  any  of  the  places  where  she  was  walking.  As  she 
passed  before  a  lighted  window,  she  made  an  effort,  drew  up 
suddenly,  and  cried  out,  "  Help  ! " 

The  bourgeois  who  was  standing  at  the  window  opened  it, 
appeared  there  in  his  shirt  with  his  lamp,  stared  at  the  quay 
with  a  stupid  air,  uttered  some  words  which  she  did  not  un- 
derstand, and  closed  his  shutter  again.  It  was  her  last  gleam 
of  hope  extinguished. 

The  man  in  black  did  not  utter  a  syllable ;  he  held  her  firmly, 


270  NOTRE-DAME. 

and  set  out  again  at  a  quicker  pace.  She  no  longer  resisted, 
but  followed  him,  completely  broken. 

From  time  to  time  she  called  together  a  little  strength,  and 
said,  in  a  voice  broken  by  the  unevenness  of  the  pavement 
and  the  breathlessness  of  their  flight,  "  Who  are  you  ?  Who 
are  you  ?  "  He  made  no  reply. 

They  arrived  thus,  still  keeping  along  the  quay,  at  a  toler- 
ably spacious  square.  It  was  the  Greve.  In  the  middle,  a 
sort  of  black,  erect  cross  was  visible ;  it  was  the  gallows.  She 
recognized  all  this,  and  saw  where  she  was. 

The  man  halted,  turned  towards  her  and  raised  his  cowl. 

"  Oh !  "  she  stammered,  almost  petrified,  "  I  knew  well  that 
it  was  he  again  ! " 

It  was  the  priest.  He  looked  like  the  ghost  of  himself; 
that  is  an  effect  of  the  moonlight,  it  seems  as  though  one 
beheld  only  the  spectres  of  things  in  that  light. 

"  Listen  ! "  he  said  to  her ;  and  she  shuddered  at  the  sound 
of  that  fatal  voice  which  she  had  not  heard  for  a  long  time. 
He  continued  speaking  with  those  brief  and  panting  jerks, 
which  betoken  deep  internal  convulsions.  "  Listen !  we  are 
here.  I  am  going  to  speak  to  you.  This  is  the  Greve.  This 
is  an  extreme  point.  Destiny  gives  us  to  one  another.  I  am 
going  to  decide  as  to  your  life  ;  you  will  decide  as  to  my  soul. 
Here  is  a  place,  here  is  a  night  beyond  which  one  sees  noth- 
ing. Then  listen  to  me.  I  am  going  to  tell  you.  ...  In  the 
first  place,  speak  not  to  me  of  your  Phoebus.  (As  he  spoke 
thus  he  paced  to  and  fro,  like  a  man  who  cannot  remain  in  one 
place,  and  dragged  her  after  him.)  .Do  not  speak  to  me  of 
him.  Do  you  see  ?  If  you  utter  that  name,  I  know  not  what 
I  shall  do,  but  it  will  be  terrible." 

Then,  like  a  body  which  recovers  its  centre  of  gravity, 
he  became  motionless  once  more,  but  his  words  betrayed  no 
less  agitation.  His  voice  grew  lower  and  lower. 

"Do  not  turn  your  head  aside  thus.  Listen  to  me.  It  is  a 
serious  matter.  In  the  first  place,  here  is  what  has  happened. 
—  All  this  will  not  be  laughed  at.  I  swear  it  to  you.  — What 
was  I  saying  ?  Remind  me  !  Oh  !  —  There  is  a  decree  of 
Parliament  which  gives  you  back  to  the  scaffold.  I  have  just 


THE  LITTLE  SHOE.  271 

rescued  you  from  their  hands.  But  they  are  pursuing  you. 
Look ! " 

He  extended  his  arm  toward  the  City.  The  search  seemed, 
in  fact,  to  be  still  in  progress  there.  The  uproar  drew  nearer ; 
the  tower  of  the  lieutenant's  house,  situated  opposite  the 
Greve,  was  full  of  clamors  and  light,  and  soldiers  could  be 
seen  running  on  the  opposite  quay  with  torches  and  these 
cries,  "  The  gypsy  !  Where  is  the  gypsy !  Death  !  Death !  " 

"You  see  that  they  are  in  pursuit  of  you,  and  that  I  am 
not  lying  to  you.  I  love  you.  —  Do  not  open  your  mouth ; 
refrain  from  speaking  to  me  rather,  if  it  be  only  to  tell  me 
that  you  hate  me.  I  have  made  up  my  mind  not  to  hear  that 
again. — I  have  just  saved  you.  —  Let  me  finish  first.  I  can 
save  you  wholly.  I  have  prepared  everything.  It  is  yours  at 
will.  If  you  wish,  I  can  do  it." 

He  broke  off  violently.  "No,  that  is  not  what  I  should 
say  ! " 

As  he  went  with  hurried  step  and  made  her  hurry  also,  for 
he  did  not  release  her,  he  walked  straight  to  the  gallows,  and 
pointed  to  it  with  his  finger,  — 

"  Choose  between  us  two,"  he  said,  coldly. 

She  tore  herself  from  his  hands  and  fell  at  the  foot  of  the 
gibbet,  embracing  that  funereal  support,  then  she  half  turned 
her  beautiful  head,  and  looked  at  the  priest  over  her  shoulder. 
One  would  have  said  that  she  was  a  Holy  Virgin  at  the  foot  of 
the  cross.  The  priest  remained  motionless,  his  finger  still 
raised  toward  the  gibbet,  preserving  his  attitude  like  a  statue. 

At  length  the  gypsy  said  to  him,  — 

"  It  causes  me  less  horror  than  you  do." 

Then  he  allowed  his  arm  to  sink  slowly,  and  gazed  at  the 
pavement  in  profound  dejection. 

"  If  these  stones  could  speak,"  he  murmured,  "  yes,  they 
would  say  that  a  very  unhappy  man  stands  here. 

He  went  on.  The  young  girl,  kneeling  before  the  gallows, 
enveloped  in  her  long  flowing  hair,  let  him  speak  on  without 
interruption.  He  now  had  a  gentle  and  plaintive  accent  which 
contrasted  sadly  with  the  haughty  harshness  of  his  features. 

"  I  love  you.     Oh  !  how  true  that  is  !     So  nothing  comes  of 


272  NOTEE-DAME. 

that  fire  which  burns  my  heart !  Alas  !  young  girl,  night  and 
day — yes,  night  and  day  I  tell  you,  —  it  is  torture.  Oh!  I 
suffer  too  much,  my  poor  child.  'Tis  a  thing  deserving  of 
compassion,  I  assure  you.  You  see  that  I  speak  gently  to 
you.  I  really  wish  that  you  should  no  longer  cherish  this 
horror  of  me.  —  After  all,  if  a  man  loves  a  woman,  'tis  not  hi& 
fault !  —  Oh,  my  God !  —  What !  So  you  will  never  pardon  me  ? 
You  will  always  hate  me  ?  All  is  over  then.  It  is  that  which 
renders  me  evil,  do  you  see?  and  horrible  to  myself.  —  You 
will  not  even  look  at  me  !  You  are  thinking  of  something 
else,  perchance,  while  I  stand  here  and  talk  to  you,  shudder- 
ing on  the  brink  of  eternity  for  both  of  us  !  Above  all 
things,  do  not  speak  to  me  of  the  officer !  —  I  would  cast 
myself  at  your  knees,  I  would  kiss  not  your  feet,  but  the  earth 
which  is  under  your  feet ;  I  would  sob  like  a  child,  I  would 
tear  from  my  breast  not  words,  but  my  very  heart  and  vitals, 
to  tell  you  that  I  love  you ;  —  all  would  be  useless,  all !  —  And 
yet  you  have  nothing  in  your  heart  but  what  is  tender  and 
merciful.  You  are  radiant  with  the  most  beautiful  mildness ; 
you  are  wholly  sweet,  good,  pitiful,  and  charming.  Alas ! 
You  cherish  no  ill  will  for  any  one  but  me  alone  !  Oh !  what 
a  fatality  ! " 

He  hid  his  face  in  his  hands.  The  young  girl  heard  him 
weeping.  It  was  for  the  first  time.  Thus  erect  and  shaken 
by  sobs,  he  was  more  miserable  and  more  suppliant  than  when 
on  his  knees.  He  wept  thus  for  a  considerable  time. 

"  Come  ! "  he  said,  these  first  tears  passed,  "  I  have  no  more 
words.  I  had,  however,  thought  well  as  to  what  you  would 
say.  Now  I  tremble  and  shiver  and  break  down  at  the  deci- 
sive moment,  I  feel  conscious  of  something  supreme  envelop- 
ing us,  and  I  stammer.  Oh  !  I  shall  fall  upon  the  pavement 
if  you  do  not  take  pity  on  me,  pity  on  yourself.  Do  not  con- 
demn us  both.  If  you  only  knew  how  much  I  love  you  ! 
What  a  heart  is  mine  !  Oh  !  what  desertion  of  all  virtue  ! 
What  desperate  abandonment  of  myself  !  A  doctor,  I  mock  at 
science  ;  a  gentleman.  I  tarnish  my  own  name  ;  a  priest,  I 
make  of  the  missal  a  pillow  of  sensuality,  I  spit  in  the  face  of 
my  God  !  all  this  for  thee,  enchantress  !  to  be  more  worthy 


THE  LITTLE  SHOE.  273 

of  thy  hell !  And  you  will  not  have  the  apostate  !  Oh !  let 
me  tell  you  all !  more  still,  something  more  horrible,  oh  !  yet 
more  horrible  !  .  .  ." 

As  he  uttered  these  last  words,  his  air  became  utterly  dis- 
tracted. He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  resumed,  as  though 
speaking  to  himself,  and  in  a  strong  voice,  — 

"  Cain,  what  hast  thou  done  with  thy  brother  ?  " 

There  was  another  silence,  and  he  went  on :  — 

"  What  have  I  done  with  him,  Lord  ?  I  received  him,  I 
reared  him,  I  nourished  him,  I  loved  him,  I  idolized  him,  and 
I  have  slain  him !  Yes,  Lord,  they  have  just  dashed  his 
head  before  my  eyes  on  the  stone  of  thine  house,  and  it  is 
because  of  me,  because  of  this  woman,  because  of  her." 

His  eye  was  wild.  His  voice  grew  ever  weaker ;  he  repeated 
many  times,  yet,  mechanically,  at  tolerably  long  intervals, 
like  a  bell  prolonging  its  last  vibration  :  "  Because  of  her.  — 
Because  of  her." 

Then  his  tongue  no  longer  articulated  any  perceptible 
sound ;  but  his  lips  still  moved.  All  at  once  he  sank  to- 
gether, like  something  crumbling,  and  lay  motionless  on  the 
earth,  with  his  head  on  his  knees. 

A  touch  from  the  young  girl,  as  she  drew  her  foot  from 
under  him,  brought  him  to  himself.  He  passed  his  hand 
slowly  over  his  hollow  cheeks,  and  gazed  for  several  moments 
at  his  fingers,  which  were  wet,  "What!"  he  murmured,  "I 
have  wept ! " 

And  turning  suddenly  to  the  gypsy  with  unspeakable  an- 
guish, — 

"Alas!  you  have  looked  coldly  on  at  my  tears!  Child,  do 
you  know  that  those  tears  are  of  lava  ?  Is  it  indeed  true  ? 
Xothing  touches  when  it  comes  from  the  man  whom  one  does 
not  love.  If  you  were  to  see  me  die,  you  would  laugh.  Oh ! 
I  do  not  wish  to  see  you  die  !  One  word  !  A  single  word  of 
pardon !  Say  not  that  you  love  me,  say  only  that  you  will  do 
it ;  that  will  suffice  ;  I  will  save  you.  If  not  —  oh  !  the  hour 
is  passing.  I  entreat  you  by  all  that  is  sacred,  do  not  wait 
until  I  shall  have  turned  to  stone  again,  like  that  gibbet  which 
also  claims  you !  Eeflect  that  I  hold  the  destinies  of  both  of 


274  NOTEE-DAME. 

us  in  my  hand,  that  I  am  mad,  —  it  is  terrible, — that  I  may 
let  all  go  to  destruction,  and  that  there  is  beneath  us  a  bot- 
tomless abyss,  unhappy  girl,  whither  my  fall  will  follow  yours 
to  all  eternity !  One  word  of  kindness !  Say  one  word ! 
only  one  word ! " 

She  opened  her  mouth  to  answer  him.  He  flung  himself  on 
his  knees  to  receive  with  adoration  the  word,  possibly  a  ten- 
der one,  which  was  on  the  point  of  issuing  from  her  lips.  She 
said  to  him,  "  You  are  an  assassin  !  " 

The  priest  clasped  her  in  his  arms  with  fury,  and  began  to 
laugh  with  an  abominable  laugh. 

"Well,  yes,  an  assassin!"  he  said,  "and  I  will  have  you. 
You  will  not  have  me  for  your  slave,  you  shall  have  me  for 
your  master.  I  will  have  you !  I  have  a  den,  whither  I  will 
drag  you.  You  will  folloAv  me,  you  will  be  obliged  to  follow 
me,  or  I  will  deliver  you  up !  You  must  die,  my  beauty,  or  be 
mine !  belong  to  the  priest !  belong  to  the  apostate !  belong 
to  the  assassin !  this  very  night,  do  you  hear  ?  Come !  joy ; 
kiss  me,  mad  girl !  The  tomb  or  my  bed  !  " 

His  eyes  sparkled  with  impurity  and  rage.  His  lewd  lips 
reddened  the  young  girl's  neck.  She  struggled  in  his  arms. 
He  covered  her  with  furious  kisses. 

"  Do  not  bite  me,  monster ! "  she  cried.  "  Oh  !  the  foul, 
odious  monk !  leave  me !  I  will  tear  out  thy  ugly  gray  hair 
and  fling  it  in  thy  face  by  the  handful !  " 

He  reddened,  turned  pale,  then  released  her  and  gazed  at 
her  with  a  gloomy  air.  She  thought  herself  victorious,  and 
continued,  — 

"  I  tell  you  that  I  belong  to  my  Phosbus,  that  'tis  Phrebus 
whom  I  love,  that  'tis  Phosbus  who  is  handsome  !  you  are  old, 
priest !  you  are  ugly  !  Begone  ! " 

He  gave  vent  to  a  horrible  cry,  like  the  wretch  to  whom  a 
hot  iron  is  applied.  "  Die,  then  !  "  he  said,  gnashing  his  teeth. 
She  saw  his  terrible  look  and  tried  to  fly.  He  caught  her 
once  more,  he  shook  her,  he  flung  her  on  the  ground,  and 
walked  with  rapid  strides  towards  the  corner  of  the  Tour- 
Roland,  dragging  her  after  him  along  the  pavement  by  her 
beautiful  hands. 


THE  LITTLE  SHOE.  275 

On  arriving  there,  lie  turned  to  her, — 

"  For  the  last  time,  will  you  be  mine  ? '' 

She  replied  with  emphasis,  — 

"No." 

Then  he  cried  in  a  loud  voice,  — 

"  Gudule !  Gudule !  here  is  the  gypsy !  take  your  ven- 
geance ! " 

The  young  girl  felt  herself  seized  suddenly  by  the  elbow. 
She  looked.  A  fleshless  arm  Avas  stretched  from  an  opening 
in  the  wall,  and  held  her  like  a  hand  of  iron. 

"  Hold  her  well,"  said  the  priest ;  "  'tis  the  gypsy  escaped. 
Release  her  not.  I  will  go  in  search  of  the  sergeants.  You 
shall  see  her  hanged." 

A  gutteral  laugh  replied  from  the  interior  of  the  wall  to 
these  bloody  words  :  —  "  Hah  !  hah  !  hah  !  "  —  The  gypsy 
watched  the  priest  retire  in  the  direction  of  the  Pont  Notre- 
Dame.  A  cavalcade  was  heard  in  that  direction. 

The  young  girl  had  recognized  the  spiteful  recluse.  Pant- 
ing with  terror,  she  tried  to  disengage  herself.  She  writhed, 
she  made  many  starts  of  agony  and  despair,  but  the  other  held 
her  with  incredible  strength.  The  lean  and  bony  fingers 
which  bruised  her,  clenched  on  her  flesh  and  met  around  it. 
One  would  have  said  that  this  hand  was  riveted  to  her  arm. 
It  \vas  more  than  a  chain,  more  than  a  fetter,  more  than  a  ring 
of  iron,  it  was  a  living  pair  of  pincers  endowed  with  intelli- 
gence, which  emerged  from  the  wall. 

She  fell  back  against  the  wall  exhausted,  and  then  the  fear 
of  death  took  possession  of  her.  She  thought  of  the  beauty 
of  life,  of  youth,  of  the  view  of  heaven,  the  aspects  of  nature, 
of  her  love  for  Phoebus,  of  all  that  was  vanishing  and  all  that 
was  approaching,  of  the  priest  who  was  denouncing  her,  of 
the  headsman  who  was  to  come,  of  the  gallows  which  was 
there.  Then  she  felt  terror  mount  to  the  very  roots  of  her 
hair  and  she  heard  the  mocking  laugh  of  the  recluse,  saying 
to  her  in  a  very  low  tone  :  "  Hah  !  hah  !  hah !  you  are  going 
to  be  hanged !  " 

She  turned  a  dying  look  towards  the  window,  and  she 
beheld  the  fierce  face  of  the  sacked  nun  through  the  bars. 


276  NOTES-DAMS. 

"  What  have  I  done  to  you  ?  "  she  said,  almost  lifeless. 

The  recluse  did  not  reply,  but  began  to  mumble  with  a  sing- 
song irritated,  mocking  intonation  :  "  Daughter  of  Egypt ! 
daughter  of  Egypt !  daughter  of  Egypt ! " 

The  unhappy  Esmeralda  dropped  her  head  beneath  her  flow- 
ing hair,  comprehending  that  it  was  no  human  being  she  had 
to  deal  with. 

All  at  once  the  recluse  exclaimed,  as  though  the  gypsy's 
question  had  taken  all  this  time  to  reach  her  brain,  — 

"  '  What  have  you  done  to  me  ? '  you  say  !  Ah  !  what  have 
you  done  to  me,  gypsy  !  Well !  listen.  —  I  had  a  child  !  you 
see!  I  had  a  child!  a  child,  I  tell  you  !  —  a  pretty  little 
girl !  —  my  Agnes  ! "  she  went  on  wildly,  kissing  something  in 
the  dark. —  "  Well !  do  you  see,  daughter  of  Egypt  ?  they  took 
my  child  from  me ;  they  stole  my  child ;  they  ate  my  child. 
That  is  what  you  have  done  to  me." 

The  young  girl  replied  like  a  lamb, — 

"  Alas  !  perchance  I  was  not  born  then  !  " 

"Oh!  yes!  "returned  the  recluse,  "you  must  have  been 
born.  You  were  among  them.  She  would  be  the  same  age  as 
you  !  so !  —  I  have  been  here  fifteen  years  ;  fifteen  years  have 
I  suffered ;  fifteen  years  have  I  prayed ;  fifteen  years  have  I 
beat  my  head  against  these  four  walls  —  I  tell  you  that  'twas 
the  gypsies  who  stole  her  from  me,  do  you  hear  that  ?  and 
who  ate  her  with  their  teeth.  —  Have  you  a  heart  ?  imagine  a 
child  playing,  a  child  sucking ;  a  child  sleeping.  It  is  so  inno- 
cent a  thing  !  —  Well !  that,  that  is  what  they  took  from  me, 
what  they  killed.  The  good  God  knows  it  well !  To-day,  it 
is  my  turn ;  I  am  going  to  eat  the  gypsy. —  Oh !  I  would  bite 
you  well,  if  the  bars  did  not  prevent  me !  My  head  is  too 
large  !  —  Poor  little  one  !  while  she  was  asleep !  And  if  they 
woke  her  up  when  they  took  her,  in  vain  she  might  cry  ;  I  was 
not  there  !  —  Ah !  gypsy  mothers,  you  devoured  my  child  ! 
come  see  your  own." 

Then  she  began  to  laugh  or  to  gnash  her  teeth,  for  the  two 
things  resembled  each  other  in  that  furious  face.  The  day 
was  beginning  to  dawn.  An  ashy  gleam  dimly  lighted  this 
scene,  and  the  gallows  grew  more  and  more  distinct  in  the 


THE  LITTLE  SHOE.  277 

square.  On  the  other  side,  in  the  direction  of  the  bridge  of 
Notre-Dame,  the  poor  condemned  girl  fancied  that  she  heard 
the  sound  of  cavalry  approaching. 

••  Madam,"  she  cried,  clasping  her  hands  and  falling  on  her 
knees,  dishevelled,  distracted,  mad  with  fright ;  "madam  !  have 
pity  !  They  are  coming.  I  have  done  nothing  to  you.  Would 
you  wish  to  see  me  die  in  this  horrible  fashion  before  your 
very  eyes  ?  You  are  pitiful,  I  am  sure.  It  is  too  frightful. 
Let  me  make  my  escape.  Release  me !  Mercy.  I  do  not 
wish  to  die  like  that !  " 

"  Give  me  back  my  child !  "  said  the  recluse. 

"  Mercy  !     Mercy  ! " 

"  Give  me  back  my  child  ! " 

"Release  me,  in  the  name  of  heaven  ! " 

"  Give  me  back  my  child  ! " 

Again  the  young  girl  fell ;  exhausted,  broken,  and  having 
already  the  glassy  eye  of  a  person  in  the  grave. 

"  Alas !  "  she  faltered,  "  you  seek  your  child,  I  seek  my 
parents." 

"  Give  me  back  my  little  Agnes  ! "  pursued  Gudule.  "  You 
do  not  know  where  she  is  ?  Then  die  !  —  I  will  tell  you.  I 
was  a  woman  of  the  town,  I  had  a  child,  they  took  my  child. 
It  was  the  gypsies.  You  see  plainly  that  you  must  die. 
When  your  mother,  the  gypsy,  comes  to  reclaim  you,  I  shall 
say  to  her :  '  Mother,  look  at  that  gibbet !  —  Or,  give  me  back 
my  child.  Do  you  know  where  she  is,  my  little  daughter  ? 
Stay  !  I  will  show  you.  Here  is  her  shoe,  all  that  is  left  me 
of  her.  Do  you  know  where  its  mate  is  ?  If  you  know,  tell 
me,  and  if  it  is  only  at  the  other  end  of  the  world,  I  will 
crawl  to  it  on  my  knees." 

As  she  spoke  thus,  with  her  other  arm  extended  through 
the  window,  she  showed  the  gypsy  the  little  embroidered  shoe. 
It  was  already  light  enough  to  distinguish  its  shape  and  its 
colors. 

"  Let  me  see  that  shoe,"  said  the  gypsy,  quivering.  "  God ! 
God ! » 

And  at  the  same  time,  with  her  hand  which  was  at  liberty, 
she  quickly  opened  the  little  bag  ornamented  with  green  glass, 
which  she  wore  about  her  neck. 


278  NOTRE-DAME. 

"  Go  on,  go  on  ! "  grumbled  Gudule,  "  search  your  demon's 
amulet ! " 

All  at  once,  she  stopped  short,  trembled  in  every  limb,  and 
cried  in  a  voice  which  proceeded  from  the  very  depths  of  her 
being :  "  My  daughter  ! " 

The  gypsy  had  just  drawn  from  the  bag  a  little  shoe  abso- 
lutely similar  to  the  other.  To  this  little  shoe  was  attached 
a  parchment  on  which  was  inscribed  this  charm,  — 

Quand  le  pareil  retrouveras 
Ta  mere  te  tendras  les  bras.  * 

Quicker  than  a  flash  of  lightning,  the  recluse  had  laid  the 
two  shoes  together,  had  read  the  parchment  and  had  put  close 
to  the  bars  of  the  window  her  face  beaming  with  celestial  joy 
as  she  cried,  — 

"  My  daughter !  iny  daughter ! " 

"  My  mother !  "  said  the  gypsy. 

Here  we  are  unequal  to  the  task  of  depicting  the  scene. 

The  wall  and  the  iron  bars  were  between  them.  "  Oh !  the 
wall ! "  cried  the  recluse.  "  Oh  !  to  see  her  and  not  to  em- 
brace her  !  Your  hand  !  your  hand ! " 

The  young  girl  passed  her  arm  through  the  opening ;  the 
recluse  threw  herself  on  that  hand,  pressed  her  lips  to  it  and 
there  remained,  buried  in  that  kiss,  giving  no  other  sign  of 
life  than  a  sob  which  heaved  her  breast  from  time  to  time. 
In  the  meanwhile,  she  wept  in  torrents,  in  silence,  in  the  dark. 
like  a  rain  at  night.  The  poor  mother  poured  out  in  floods 
upon  that  adored  hand  the  dark  and  deep  well  of  tears,  which 
lay  within  her,  and  into  which  her  grief  had  filtered,  drop  by 
drop,  for  fifteen  years. 

All  at  once  she  rose,  flung  aside  her  long  gray  hair  from  h  •  r 
brow,  and  without  uttering  a  word,  began  to  shake  the  bars  of 
her  cage  cell,  with  both  hands,  more  furiously  than  a  lioness. 
The  bars  held  firm.  Then  she  went  to  seek  in  the  corner  of 
her  cell  a  huge  paving  stone,  which  served  her  as  a  pillow, 

*  When  thou  shall  find  its  mate,  thy  mother  will  stretch  out  her  arms 
to  thee. 


THE  LITTLE  SHOE.  279 

and  launched  it  against  them  with  such  violence  that  one  of 
the  bars  broke,  emitting  thousands  of  sparks.  A  second  blow 
completely  shattered  the  old  iron  cross  which  barricaded  the 
window.  Then  with  her  two  hands,  she  finished  breaking 
and  removing  the  rusted  stumps  of  the  bars.  There  are 
moments  when  woman's  hands  possess  superhuman  strength. 

A  passage  broken,  less  than  a  minute  was  required  for  her 
to  seize  her  daughter  by  the  middle  of  her  body,  and  draw  her 
into  her  cell.  "  Come  let  me  draw  you  out  of  the  abyss,"  she 
murmured. 

When  her  daughter  was  inside  the  cell,  she  laid  her  gently 
on  the  ground,  then  raised  her  up  again,  and  bearing  her  in 
her  arms  as  though  she  were  still  only  her  little  Agnes,  she 
walked  to  and  fro  in  her  little  room,  intoxicated,  frantic,  joy- 
ous, crying  out,  singing,  kissing  her  daughter,  talking  to  her, 
bursting  into  laughter,  melting  into  tears,  all  at  once  and  with 
vehemence. 

"  My  daughter !  my  daughter  ! "  she  said.  "  I  have  my 
daughter !  here  she  is  !  The  good  God  has  given  her  back  to 
me !  Ha  you !  come  all  of  you  !  Is  there  any  one  there  to 
see  that  I  have  my  daughter  ?  Lord  Jesus,  how  beautiful  she 
is !  You  have  made  me  wait  fifteen  years,  my  good  God,  but 
it  was  in  order  to  give  her  back  to  me  beautiful.  —  Then  the 
gypsies  did  not  eat  her  !  Who  said  so  ?  My  little  daughter  ! 
my  little  daughter  !  Kiss  me.  Those  good  gypsies  !  I  love 
the  gypsies  !  —  It  is  really  you !  That  was  what  made  my 
heart  leap  every  time  that  you  passed  by.  And  I  took  that 
for  hatred  !  Forgive  me,  my  Agnes,  forgive  me.  You  thought 
me  very  malicious,  did  you  not  ?  I  love  you.  Have  you  still 
the  little  mark  on  your  neck  ?  Let  us  see.  She  still  has  it. 
Oh !  you  are  beautiful !  It  was  I  who  gave  you  those  big 
eyes,  mademoiselle.  Kiss  me.  I  love  you.  It  is  nothing  to 
me  that  other  mothers  have  children ;  I  scorn  them  now. 
They  have  only  to  come  and  see.  Here  is  mine.  See  her 
neck,  her  eyes,  her  hair,  her  hands.  Find  me  anything  as 
beautiful  as  that !  Oh !  I  promise  you  she  will  have  lovers, 
that  she  will !  I  have  wept  for  fifteen  years.  All  my  beauty 
has  departed  and  has  fallen  to  her.  Kiss  me." 


280  NOTRE-DAME. 

She  addressed  to  her  a  thousand  other  extravagant  remarks, 
whose  accent  constituted  their  sole  beauty,  disarranged  the 
poor  girl's  garments  even  to  the  point  of  making  her  blush, 
smoothed  her  silky  hair  with  her  hand,  kissed  her  foot,  her 
knee,  her  brow,  her  eyes,  was  in  raptures  over  everything. 
The  young  girl  let  her  have  her  way,  repeating  at  intervals 
and  very  low  and  with  infinite  tenderness,  "  My  mother  ! " 

"Do  you  see,  my  little  girl,"  resumed  the  recluse,  inter- 
spersing her  words  with  kisses,  "  I  shall  love  you  dearly  ? 
We  will  go  away  from  here.  We  are  going  to  be  very  happy. 
I  have  inherited  something  in  Eeinis,  in  our  country.  You 
know  Reims  ?  Ah  !  no,  you  do  not  know  it ;  you  were  too 
small !  If  you  only  knew  how  pretty  you  were  at  the  age  of 
four  months !  Tiny  feet  that  people  came  even  from  Epernay, 
which  is  seven  leagues  away,  to  see  !  We  shall  have  a  field,  a 
house.  I  will  put  you  to  sleep  in  my  bed.  My  God!  my 
God  !  who  would  believe  this  ?  I  have  my  daughter ! " 

"  Oh,  my  mother ! "  said  the  young  girl,  at  length  finding 
strength  to  speak  in  her  emotion,  "  the  gypsy  woman  told  me 
so.  There  was  a  good  gypsy  of  our  band  who  died  last  year, 
and  who  always  cared  for  me  like  a  nurse.  It  was  she  who 
placed  this  little  bag  about  niy  neck.  She  always  said  to  me : 
'Little  one,  guard  this  jewel  well !  'Tis  a  treasure.  It  will 
cause  thee  to  find  thy  mother  once  again.  Thou  wearest  thy 
mother  about  thy  neck.'  —  The  gypsy  predicted  it ! " 

The  sacked  nun  again  pressed  her  daughter  in  her  arms. 

"  Come,  let  me  kiss  you  !  You  say  that  prettily.  When  we 
are  in  the  country,  we  will  place  these  little  shoes  on  an 
infant  Jesus  in  the  church.  We  certainly  owe  that  to  the 
good,  holy  Virgin.  What  a  pretty  voice  you  have !  When 
you  spoke  to  me  just  now,  it  was  music  !  Ah  !  my  Lord  God  ! 
I  have  found  my  child  again !  But  is  this  story  credible  ? 
Nothing  will  kill  one  —  or  I  should  have  died  of  joy." 

And  then  she  began  to  clap  her  hands  again  and  to  laugh 
and  to  cry  out :  "  We  are  going  to  be  so  happy  ! " 

At  that  moment,  the  cell  resounded  with  the  clang  of  arms 
and  a  galloping  of  horses  which  seemed  to  be  coming  from 
the  Pont  Notre-Dame,  and  advancing  farther  and  farther 


THE  LITTLE  SHOE.  281 

along  the  quay.  The  gypsy  threw  herself  with  anguish  into 
the  arms  of  the  sacked  nun. 

"  Save  me  !  save  me  !  mother  !  they  are  coming ! " 

"Oh,  heaven!  what  are  you  saying?  I  had  forgotten! 
They  are  in  pursuit  of  you !  What  have  you  done  ?  " 

"  I  know  not,"  replied  the  unhappy  child ;  "  but  I  am  con- 
demned to  die." 

"  To  die ! "  said  Gudule,  staggering  as  though  struck  by 
lightning ;  "  to  die ! "  she  repeated  slowly,  gazing  at  her 
daughter  with  staring  eyes. 

"Yes,  mother,"  replied  the  frightened  young  girl,  "they 
want  to  kill  me.  They  are  coming  to  seize  me.  That  gal- 
lows is  for  me !  Save  me !  save  me !  They  are  coining ! 
Save  me ! " 

The  recluse  remained  for  several  moments  motionless  and 
petrified,  then  she  moved  her  head  in  sign  of  doubt,  and  sud- 
denly giving  vent  to  a  burst  of  laughter,  but  with  that  terri- 
ble laugh  which  had  come  back  to  her,  — 

"  Ho  !  ho !  no !  'tis  a  dream  of  which  you  are  telling  me. 
Ah,  yes  !  I  lost  her,  that  lasted  fifteen  years,  and  then  I  found 
her  again,  and  that  lasted  a  minute !  And  they  would  take 
her  from  me  again  !  And  now,  when  she  is  beautiful,  when 
she  is  grown  up,  when  she  speaks  to  me,  when  she  loves  me  ; 
it  is  now  that  they  would  come  to  devour  her,  before  my  very 
eyes,  and  I  her  mother  !  Oh  !  no  !  these  things  are  not  pos- 
sible. The  good  God  does  not  permit  such  things  as  that." 

Here  the  cavalcade  appeared  to  halt,  and  a  voice  was  heard 
to  say  in  the  distance,  — 

"  This  way,  Messire  Tristan !  The  priest  says  that  we  shall 
find  her  at  the  Eat-Hole."  The  noise  of  the  horses  began 
again. 

The  recluse  sprang  to  her  feet  with  a  shriek  of  despair. 

"Fly!  fly!  my  child!  All  comes  back  to  me.  You  are 
right.  It  is  your  death  !  Horror !  Maledictions  !  Fly  ! " 

She  thrust  her  head  through  the  window,  and  withdrew  it 
again  hastily. 

"Remain,"  she  said,  in  a  low,  curt,  and  lugubrious  tone,  as 
she  pressed  the  hand  of  the  gypsy,  who  was  more  dead  than 


282  NOTBE-DAME. 

alive.  "Remain  !  Do  not  breathe  !  There  are  soldiers  every- 
where. You  cannot  get  out.  It  is  too  light." 

Her  eyes  were  dry  and  burning.  She  remained  silent  for  a 
moment ;  but  she  paced  the  cell  hurriedly,  and  halted  now 
and  then  to  pluck  out  handfuls  of  her  gray  hairs,  which  she 
afterwards  tore  with  her  teeth. 

Suddenly  she  said:  "They  draw  near.  I  will  speak  with 
them.  Hide  yourself  in  this  corner.  They  will  not  see  you. 
I  will  tell  them  that  you  have  made  your  escape.  That  I 
released  you,  i'  faith  ! " 

She  set  her  daughter  (down  for  she  was  still  carrying  her), 
in  one  corner  of  the  cell  which  was  not  visible  from  without. 
She  made  her  crouch  down,  arranged  her  carefully  so  that 
neither  foot  nor  hand  projected  from  the  shadow,  untied  her 
black  hair  which  she  spread  over  her  white  robe  to  conceal 
it,  placed  in  front  of  her  her  jug  and  her  paving  stone,  the 
only  articles  of  furniture  which  she  possessed,  imagining  that 
this  jug  and  stone  would  hide  her.  And  when  this  was  fin- 
ished she  became  more  tranquil,  and  knelt  down  to  pray.  The 
day,  which  was  only  dawning,  still  left  many  shadows  in  the 
Kat-Hole. 

At  that  moment,  the  voice  of  the  priest,  that  infernal  voice, 
passed  very  close  to  the  cell,  crying,  — 

"  This  way,  Captain  Phoebus  de  Chfiteaupers." 

At  that  name,  at  that  voice,  la  Esmeralda,  crouching  in  her 
corner,  made  a  movement. 

"  Do  not  stir  ! "  said  Gudule. 

She  had  barely  finished  when  a  tumult  of  men,  swords,  and 
horses  halted  around  the  cell.  The  mother  rose  quickly  and 
went  to  post  herself  before  her  window,  in  order  to  stop  it  up. 
She  beheld  a  large  troop  of  armed  men,  both  horse  and  foot, 
drawn  up  on  the  Greve. 

The  commander  dismounted,  and  came  toward  her. 

"  Old  woman ! "  said  this  man,  who  had  an  atrocious  face, 
"we  are  in  search  of  a  witch  to  hang  her;  we  were  told  that 
you  had  her." 

The  poor  mother  assumed  as  indifferent  an  air  as  she  could, 
and  replied,  — 


THE  LITTLE  SHOE.  283 

"I  know  not  what  yon  mean." 

The  other  resumed,  "  Tete  Dieu  !  What  was  it  that  fright- 
ened archdeacon  said  ?  Where  is  he  ?  " 

"  ]\Ionseigneur,"  said  a  soldier,  "  he  has  disappeared." 

"  Come,  now,  old  madwoman,"  began  the  commander  again, 
"  do  not  lie.  A  sorceress  was  given  in  charge  to  you.  What 
have  you  done  with  her  ?  " 

The  recluse  did  not  wish  to  deny  all,  for  fear  of  awakening 
suspicion,  and  replied  in  a  sincere  and  surly  tone,  — 

"  If  you  are  speaking  of  a  big  young  girl  who  was  put  into 
my  hands  a  while  ago,  I  will  tell  you  that  she  bit  me,  and 
that  I  released  her.  There  !  Leave  me  in  peace." 

The  commander  made  a  grimace  of  disappointment. 

" Don't  lie  to  me,  old  spectre!"  said  he.  "My  name  is 
Tristan  1'Hermite,  and  I  am  the  king's  gossip.  Tristan  the 
Hermit,  do  you  hear  ?  "  He  added,  as  he  glanced  at  the  Place 
de  Greve  around  him,  "  'Tis  a  name  which  has  an  echo  here." 

"You  might  be  Satan  the  Hermit,"  replied  Gudule,  who 
was  regaining  hope,  "  but  I  should  have  nothing  else  to  say  to 
you,  and  I  should  never  be  afraid  of  you." 

"  Tete-Dieu"  said  Tristan,  "  here  is  a  crone  !  Ah  !  So  the 
witch  girl  hath  fled  !  And  in  which  direction  did  she  go  ?  " 

Gudule  replied  in  a  careless  tone,  — 

"  Through  the  Hue  du  Mouton,  I  believe." 

Tristan  turned  his  head  and  made  a  sign  to  his  troop  to 
prepare  to  set  out  on  the  march  again.  The  recluse  breathed 
freely  once  more. 

'•  Monseigneur,"  suddenly  said  an  archer,  "ask  the  old  elf 
why  the  bars  of  her  window  are  broken  in  this  manner." 

This  question  brought  anguish  again  to  the  heart  of  the 
miserable  mother.  Nevertheless,  she  did  not  lose  all  presence 
of  mind. 

"  They  have  always  been  thus,"  she  stammered. 

"  Bah ! "  retorted  the  archer,  "  only  yesterday  they  still 
formed  a  fine  black  cross,  which  inspired  devotion." 

Tristan  cast  a  sidelong  glance  at  the  recluse. 

"  I  think  the  old  dame  is  getting  confused  !  " 

The  unfortunate  woman  felt  that  all  depended  on  her  self- 


284  NOTRE-DAME. 

possession,  and,  although  with  death  in  her  soul,  she  began  to 
grin.  Mothers  possess  such  strength. 

"  Bah ! "  said  she,  "  the  man  is  drunk.  'Tis  more  than  a 
year  since  the  tail  of  a  stone  cart  dashed  against  my  window 
and  broke  in  the  grating.  And  how  I  cursed  the  carter,  too." 

"  'Tis  true,"  said  another  archer,  "  I  was  there." 

Always  and  everywhere  people  are  to  be  found  who  have 
seen  everything.  This  unexpected  testimony  from  the  archer 
re-encouraged  the  recluse,  whom  this  interrogatory  was  forc- 
ing to  cross  an  abyss  on  the  edge  of  a  knife.  But  she  was 
condemned  to  a  perpetual  alternative  of  hope  and  alarm. 

"  If  it  was  a  cart  which  did  it,"  retorted  the  first  soldier, 
"the  stumps  of  the  bars  should  be  thrust  inwards,  while  they 
actually  are  pushed  outwards." 

"  He !  he !  "  said  Tristan  to  the  soldier,  "  you  have  the  nose 
of  an  inquisitor  of  the  Chatelet.  Reply  to  what  he  says,  old 
woman." 

"  Good  heavens  ! "  she  exclaimed,  driven  to  bay,  and  in  a 
voice  that  was  full  of  tears  in  despite  of  her  efforts,  "  I  swear 
to  you,  monseigneur,  that  'twas  a  cart  which  broke  those  bars. 
You  hear  the  man  who  saw  it.  And  then,  what  has  that  to  do 
with  your  gypsy  ?  " 

"  Hum  !  "  growled  Tristan. 

"  The  devil ! "  went  on  the  soldier,  flattered  by  the  provost's 
praise,  "  these  fractures  of  the  iron  are  perfectly  fresh." 

Tristan  tossed  his  head.     She  turned  pale. 

"  How  long  ago,  say  you,  did  the  cart  do  it  ?  " 

"  A  month,  a  fortnight,  perhaps,  monseigneur,  I  know  not." 

"  She  first  said  more  than  a  year,"  observed  the  soldier. 

"  That  is  suspicious,"  said  the  provost. 

"  Monseigneur ! "  she  cried,  still  pressed  against  the  open- 
ing, and  trembling  lest  suspicion  should  lead  them  to  thrust 
their  heads  through  and  look  into  her  cell ;  "  monseigneur,  I 
swear  to  you  that  'twas  a  cart  which  broke  this  grating.  I 
swear  it  to  you  by  the  angels  of  paradise.  If  it  was  not  a 
cart,  may  I  be  eternally  damned,  and  I  reject  God !" 

"  You  put  a  great  deal  of  heat  into  that  oath,"  said  Tristan, 
with  his  inquisitorial  glance. 


THE  LITTLE  SHOE.  285 

The  poor  woman  felt  her  assurance  vanishing  more  and 
more.  She  had  reached  the  point  of  blundering,  and  she  com- 
prehended with  terror  that  she  was  saying  what  she  ought  not 
to  have  said. 

Here  another  soldier  came  up,  crying,  — 

"  Monsieur,  the  old  hag  lies.  The  sorceress  did  not  flee 
through  the  Rue  de  Mouton.  The  street  chain  has  remained 
stretched  all  night,  and  the  chain  guard  has  seen  no  one  pass." 

Tristan,  whose  face  became  more  sinister  with  every 
moment,  addressed  the  recluse, — 

"  What  have  you  to  say  to  that  ?  " 

She  tried  to  make  head  against  this  new  incident,  — 

"  That  I  do  not  know,  inonseigneur ;  that  I  may  have  been 
mistaken.  I  believe,  in  fact,  that  she  crossed  the  water." 

"  That  is  in  the  opposite  direction,"  said  the  provost,  "  and 
it  is  not  very  likely  that  she  would  wish  to  re-enter  the  city, 
where  she  was  being  pursued.  You  are  lying,  old  woman." 

"And  then,"  added  the  first  soldier,  "there  is  no  boat 
either  011  this  side  of  the  stream  or  on  the  other." 

"She  swam  across,"  replied  the  recluse,  defending  her 
ground  foot  by  foot. 

"  Do  women  swim  ?  "  said  the  soldier. 

"  Tete  Dieu  !  old  woman  !  You  are  lying !  "  repeated  Tris- 
tan angrily.  "  I  have  a  good  mind  to  abandon  that  sorceress 
and  take  you.  A  quarter  of  an  hour  of  torture  will,  perchance, 
draw  the  truth  from  your  throat.  Come  !  You  are  to  follow 
us." 

She  seized  on  these  words  with  avidity. 

"As  you  please,  monseigneur.  Doit.  Doit.  Torture.  I 
am  willing.  Take  me  away.  Quick,  quick  !  let  us  set  out  at 
once  !  — During  that  time,"  she  said  to  herself,  "my  daughter 
will  make  her  escape." 

"  'S  death  ! "  said  the  provost,  "  what  an  appetite  for  the 
rack  !  I  understand  not  this  madwoman  at  all." 

An  old,  gray-haired  sergeant  of  the  guard  stepped  out  of 
the  ranks,  and  addressing  the  provost,  — 

"  Mad  in  sooth,  monseigneur.  If  she  released  the  gypsy,  it 
was  not  her  fault,  for  she  loves  not  the  gypsies.  I  have  been 


286  NOTRE-DAME. 

of  the  watch  these  fifteen  years,  and  I  hear  her  every  evening 
cursing  the  Bohemian  women  with  endless  imprecations.  If 
the  one  of  whom  we  are  in  pursuit*  is,  as  I  suppose,  the  little 
dancer  with  the  goat,  she  detests  that  one  above  all  the  rest." 

Gudule  made  an  effort  and  said,  — 

"  That  one  above  all." 

The  unanimous  testimony  of  the  men  of  the  watch  con- 
firmed the  old  sergeant's  words  to  the  provost.  Tristan 
FHermite,  in  despair  at  extracting  anything  from  the  recluse, 
turned  his  back  on  her,  and  with  unspeakable  anxiety  she 
beheld  him  direct  his  course  slowly  towards  his  horse. 

"  Come ! "  he  said,  between  his  teeth,  "  March  on  !  let  us 
set  out  again  on  the  quest.  I  shall  not  sleep  until  that  gypsy 
is  hanged." 

But  he  still  hesitated  for  some  time  before  mounting  his 
horse.  Gudule  palpitated  between  life  and  death,  as  she 
beheld  him  cast  about  the  Place  that  uneasy  look  of  a  hunt- 
ing dog  which  instinctively  feels  that  the  lair  of  the  beast  is 
close  to  him,  and  is  loath  to  go  away.  At  length  he  shook 
his  head  and  leaped  into  his  saddle.  Gudule's  horribly  com- 
pressed heart  now  dilated,  and  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  as  she 
cast  a  glance  at  her  daughter,  whom  she  had  not  ventured  to 
look  at  while  they  were  there,  "  Saved ! " 

The  poor  child  had  remained  all  this  time  in  her  corner, 
without  breathing,  without  moving,  with  the  idea  of  death 
before  her.  She  had  lost  nothing  of  the  scene  between  Gudule 
and  Tristan,  and  the  anguish  of  her  mother  had  found  its  echo 
in  her  heart.  She  had  heard  all  the  successive  snappings  of 
the  thread  by  which  she  hung  suspended  over  the  gulf ;  twenty 
times  she  had  fancied  that  she  saw  it  break,  and  at  last  she 
began  to  breathe  again  and  to  feel  her  foot  on  firm  ground. 
At  that  moment  she  heard  a  voice  saying  to  the  provost : 
"  Corbceuf!  Monsieur  le  Prevot,  'tis  no  affair  of  mine,  a  man 
of  arms,  to  hang  witches.  The  rabble  of  the  populace  is  suj 
pressed.  I  leave  you  to  attend  to  the  matter  alone.  You  wil 
allow  me  to  rejoin  my  company,  who  are  waiting  for  their 
captain." 

The  voice  was  that  of  Phoebus  de  Chateaupers ;  that  whicl 


TllE  LITTLE  SHOE.  287 

took  place  within  her  was  ineffable.  He  was  there,  her  friend, 
her  protector,  her  support,  her  refuge,  her  Phoebus.  She  rose, 
and  before  her  mother  could  prevent  her,  she  had  rushed  to 
the  window,  crying,  — 

"  Phoebus  !  aid  me,  my  Phoebus  ! " 

Phoebus  was  no  longer  there.  He  had  just  turned  the 
corner  of  the  Rue  de  la  Coutellerie  at  a  gallop.  But  Tristan 
had  not  yet  taken  his  departure. 

The  recluse  rushed  upon  her  daughter  with  a  roar  of  agony. 
She  dragged  her  violently  back,  digging  her  nails  into  her 
neck.  A  tigress  mother  does  not  stand  on  trifles.  But  it  was 
too  late.  Tristan  had  seen. 

"  He  1  he  !  "  he  exclaimed  with  a  laugh  which  laid  bare  all 
his  teeth  and  made  his  face  resemble  the  muzzle  of  a  wolf, 
"  two  mice  in  the  trap  ! " 

"  I  suspected  as  much,"  said  the  soldier. 

Tristan  clapped  him  on  the  shoulder,  — 

"  You  are  a  good  cat !  Come  ! "  he  added,  "  where  is  Hen- 
riet  Cousin  ?  " 

A  man  who  had  neither  the  garments  nor  the  air  of  a 
soldier,  stepped  from  the  ranks.  He  wore  a  costume  half 
gray,  half  brown,  flat  hair,  leather  sleeves,  and  carried  a 
bundle  of  ropes  in  his  huge  hand.  This,  man  always  attended 
Tristan,  who  always  attended  Louis  XL 

"Friend,"  said  Tristan  1'Hermite,  "I  presume  that  this  is 
the  sorceress  of  whom  we  are  in  search.  You  will  hang  me 
this  one.  Have  you  your  ladder  ?  " 

"  There  is  one  yonder,  under  the  shed  of  the  Pillar-House," 
replied  the  man.  "  Is  it  on  this  justice  that  the  thing  is  to 
be  done  ?  "  he  added,  pointing  to  the  stone  gibbet. 

"Yes." 

"  Ho,  he ! "  continued  the  man  with  a  huge  laugh,  which 
was  still  more  brutal  than  that  of  the  provost,  "we  shall  not 
have  far  to  go." 

"  Make  haste  !  "  said  Tristan,  "  you  shall  laugh  afterwards." 

In  the  meantime,  the  recluse  had  not  uttered  another  word 
since  Tristan  had  seen  her  daughter  and  all  hope  was  lost. 
She  had  flung  the  poor  gypsy,  half  dead,  into  the  corner  of 


288  NOTRE-DAME. 

the  cellar,  and  had  placed  herself  once  more  at  the  window 
with  both  hands  resting  on  the  angle  of  the  sill  like  two 
claws.  In  this  attitude  she  was  seen  to  cast  upon  all  those 
soldiers  her  glance  which  had  become  wild  and  frantic  once 
more.  At  the  moment  when  Henriet  Cousin  approached  hei 
cell,  she  showed  him  so  savage  a  face  that  he  shrank  back. 

"  Monseigneur,"  he  said,  returning  to  the  provost,  "which 
am  I  to  take  ?  " 

"  The  young  one." 

"  So  much  the  better,  for  the  old  one  seemeth  difficult." 

"  Poor  little  dancer  with  the  goat ! "  said  the  old  sergean 
of  the  watch. 

Henriet  Cousin  approached  the  window  again.  The  mother\; 
eyes  made  his  own  droop.  He  said  with  a  good  deal  oi 
timidity,  — 

"Madam"  — 

She  interrupted  him  in  a  very  low  but  furious  voice,  — 

"  What  do  you  ask  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  you,"  he  said,  "  it  is  the  other." 

"What  other?" 

"  The  young  one." 

She  began  to  shake  her  head,  crying,  — 

"  There  is  no  one  !  there  is  no  one  !  there  is  no  one ! " 

"Yes,  there  is  !"  retorted  the  hangman,  "and  you  know  \\, 
well.  Let  me  take  the  young  one.  I  have  no  wish  to  harm 
you." 

She  said,  with  a  strange  sneer,  — 

"  Ah !  so  you  have  no  wish  to  harm  me !  " 

"  Let  me  have  the  other,  madam ;  'tis  monsieur  the  pro- 
vost who  wills  it." 

She  repeated  with  a  look  of  madness,  — 

"There  is  no  one  here." 

"I  tell  you  that  there  is  !"  replied  the  executioner.  "We 
have  all  seen  that  there  are  two  of  you." 

"Look  then!"  said  the  recluse,  with  a  sneer.  "Thrust 
your  head  through  the  window." 

The  executioner  observed  the  mother's  finger-nails  and 
dared  not. 


THE  LITTLE  SHOE.  289 

"Make  haste!"  shouted  Tristan,  who  had  just  ranged  his 
troops  in  a  circle  round  the  Rat-Hole,  and  who  sat  011  his 
horse  beside  the  gallows. 

Henriet  returned  once  more  to  the  provost  in  great  embar- 
rassment. He  had  flung  his  rope  on  the  ground,  and  was 
twisting  his  hat  between  his  hands  with  an  awkward  air. 

"  Monseigneur,"  he  asked,  "  where  am  I  to  enter  ?  " 

"  By  the  door." 

"There  is  none." 

"  By  the  window." 

"'Tis  too  small." 

"Make  it  larger,"  said  Tristan  angrily.  "Have  you  not 
pickaxes  ?  " 

The  mother  still  looked  on  steadfastly  from  the  depths  of 
her  cavern.  She  no  longer  hoped  for  anything,  she  no  longer 
knew  what  she  wished,  except  that  she  did  not  wish  them  to 
take  her  daughter. 

Henriet  Cousin  went  in  search  of  the  chest  of  tools  for  the 
night  man,  under  the  shed  of  the  Pillar-House.  He  drew 
from  it  also  the  double  ladder,  which  he  immediately  set  up 
against  the  gallows.  Five  or  six  of  the  provost's  men  armed 
themselves  with  picks  and  crowbars,  and  Tristan  betook  him- 
self, in  company  with  them,  towards  the  window. 

"  Old  woman,"  said  the  provost,  in  a  severe  tone,  "  deliver 
up  to  us  that  girl  quietly." 

She  looked  at  him  like  one  who  does  not  understand. 

"  Tete  Dieu!"  continued  Tristan,  "why  do  you  try  to 
prevent  this  sorceress  being  hung  as  it  pleases  the  king  ?  " 

The  wretched  woman  began  to  laugh  in  her  wild  way. 

"  Why  ?  She  is  my  daughter." 

The  tone  in  which  she  pronounced  these  words  made  even 
Henriet  Cousin  shudder. 

"  I  am  sorry  for  that,"  said  the  provost,  "  but  it  is  the 
king's  good  pleasure." 

She  cried,  redoubling  her  terrible  laugh,  — 

"  What  is  your  king  to  me  ?  I  tell  you  that  she  is  my 
daughter  ! " 

"  Pierce  the  wall,"  said  Tristan. 


290  NOTRE-DAME. 

In  order  to  make  a  sufficiently  wide  opening,  it  sufficed  to 
dislodge  one  course  of  stone  below  the  window.  When  the 
mother  heard  the  picks  and  crowbars  mining  her  fortress,  she 
uttered  a  terrible  cry ;  then  she  began  to  stride  about  her  cell 
with  frightful  swiftness,  a  wild  beasts'  habit  which  her  cage 
had  imparted  to  her.  She  no  longer  said  anything,  but  her 
eyes  flamed.  The  soldiers  were  chilled  to  the  very  soul. 

All  at  once  she  seized  her  paving  stone,  laughed,  and  hurled 
it  with  both  fists  upon  the  workmen.  The  stone,  badly  flung 
(for  her  hands  trembled),  touched  no  one,  and  fell  short  under 
the  feet  of  Tristan's  horse.  She  gnashed  her  teeth. 

In  the  meantime,  although  the  sun  had  not  yet  risen,  it 
was  broad  daylight;  a  beautiful  rose  color  enlivened  the 
ancient,  decayed  chimneys  of  the  Pillar-House.  It  was  the 
hour  when  the  earliest  windows  of  the  great  city  open  joy- 
ously on  the  roofs.  Some  workmen,  a  few  fruit-sellers  on 
their  way  to  the  markets  on  their  asses,  began  to  traverse  the 
Greve ;  they  halted  for  a  moment  before  this  group  of  soldiers 
clustered  round  the  Rat-Hole,  stared  at  it  with  an  air  of 
astonishment  and  passed  on. 

The  recluse  had  gone  and  seated  herself  by  her  daughter, 
covering  her  with  her  body,  in  front  of  her,  with  staring 
eyes,  listening  to  the  poor  child,  who  did  not  stir,  but  who 
kept  murmuring  in  a  low  voice,  these  words  only,  "  Phoebus ! 
Phoebus  ! "  In  proportion  as  the  work  of  the  demolishers 
seemed  to  advance,  the  mother  mechanically  retreated,  and 
pressed  the  young  girl  closer  and  closer  to  the  wall.  All  at 
once,  the  recluse  beheld  the  stone  (for  she  was  standing 
guard  and  never  took  her  eyes  from  it),  move,  and  she  heard 
Tristan's  voice  encouraging  the  workers.  Then  she  aroused 
from  the  depression  into  which  she  had  fallen  during  the  last 
few  moments,  cried  out,  and  as  she  spoke,  her  voice  now 
rent  the  ear  like  a  saw,  then  stammered  as  though  all  kind 
of  maledictions  were  pressing  to  her  lips  to  burst  forth  at 
once. 

"  Ho  !  ho  !  ho !  Why  this  is  terrible  !  You  are  ruffians  ! 
Are  you  really  going  to  take  my  daughter  ?  Oh  !  the  cowards  ! 
Oh  !  the  hangman  lackeys !  the  wretched,  blackguard  assas- 


THE  LITTLE   SHOE.  291 

sins  !  Help  !  help  !  fire !  Will  they  take  my  child  from  me 
like  this  ?  Who  is  it  then  who  is  called  the  good  God  ?  " 

Then,  addressing  Tristan,  foaming  at  the  mouth,  with  wild 
eyes,  all  bristling  and  on  all  fours  like  a  female  panther, — 

"  Draw  near  and  take  my  daughter  !  Do  not  you  under- 
stand that  this  woman  tells  you  that  she  is  my  daughter  ?  Do 
you  know  what  it  is  to  have  a  child  ?  Eh  !  lynx,  have  you 
never  lain  with  your  female  ?  have  you  never  had  a  cub  ? 
and  if  you  have  little  ones,  when  they  howl  have  you  nothing 
in  your  vitals  that  moves  ?  " 

"  Throw  down  the  stone,"  said  Tristan ;  "  it  no  longer 
holds." 

The  crowbars  raised  the  heavy  course.  It  was,  as  we  have 
said,  the  mother's  last  bulwark. 

She  threw  herself  upon  it,  she  tried  to  hold  it  back ;  she 
scratched  the  stone  with  her  nails,  but  the  massive  block,  set 
in  movement  by  six  men,  escaped  her  and  glided  gently  to  the 
ground  along  the  iron  levers. 

The  mother,  perceiving  an  entrance  effected,  fell  down  in 
front  of  the  opening,  barricading  the  breach  with  her  body, 
beating  the  pavement  with  her  head,  and  shrieking  with 
a  voice  rendered  so  hoarse  by  fatigue  that  it  was  hardly 
audible, — 

"  Help  !  fire  !  fire  !  " 

"  Now  take  the  wench,"  said  Tristan,  still  impassive. 

The  mother  gazed  at  the  soldiers  in  such  formidable  fashion 
that  they  were  more  inclined  to  retreat  than  to  advance. 

"  Come,  now,"  repeated  the  provost.  "  Here  you,  Henriet 
Cousin  ! " 

No  one  took  a  step. 

The  provost  swore, — 

"  Tete  de  Christ !  my  men  of  war  !  afraid  of  a  woman  !  " 

"  Monseigneur,"  said  Henriet,  "  do  you  call  that  a  woman  ?  " 

"  She  has  the  mane  of  a  lion,"  said  another. 

"  Come ! "  repeated  the  provost,  "  the  gap  is  wide  enough. 
Enter  three  abreast,  as  at  the  breach  of  Pontoise.  Let  us 
make  an  end  of  it,  death  of  Mahom  !  I  will  make  two  pieces 
of  the  first  man  who  draws  back  ! " 


292  NOTRE-DAME. 

Placed  between  the  provost  and  the  mother,  both  threaten- 
ing, the  soldiers  hesitated  for  a  moment,  then  took  their  reso- 
lution, and  advanced  towards  the  Rat-Hole. 

When  the  recluse  saw  this,  she  rose  abruptly  on  her  knees, 
flung  aside  her  hair  from  her  face,  then  let  her  thin  flayed 
hands  fall  by  her  side.  Then  great  tears  fell,  one  by  one,  from 
her  eyes ;  they  flowed  down  her  cheeks  through  a  furrow,  like 
a  torrent  through  a  bed  which  it  has  hollowed  for  itself. 

At  the  same  time  she  began  to  speak,  but  in  a  voice  so  sup- 
plicating, so  gentle,  so  submissive,  so  heartrending,  that  more 
than  one  old  convict- warder  around  Tristan  who  must  have 
devoured  human  flesh  wiped  his  eyes. 

"  Messeigneurs  !  messieurs  the  sergeants,  one  word.  There 
is  one  thing  which  I  must  say  to  you.  She  is  my  daughter, 
do  you  see  ?  my  dear  little  daughter  whom  I  had  lost ! 
Listen.  It  is  quite  a  history.  Consider  that  I  knew  the  ser- 
geants very  well.  They  were  always  good  to  me  in  the  days 
when  the  little  boys  threw  stones  at  me,  because  I  led  a  life 
of  pleasure.  Do  you  see  ?  You  will  leave  me  my  child  when 
you  know !  I  was  a  poor  woman  of  the  town.  It  was  the 
Bohemians  who  stole  her  from  me.  And  I  kept  her  shoe  for 
fifteen  years.  Stay,  here  it  is.  That  was  the  kind  of  foot 
which  she  had.  At  Reims  !  La  Chantefleurie !  Rue  Folle- 
Peine  !  Perchance,  you  knew  about  that.  It  was  I.  In  your 
youth,  then,  there  was  a  merry  time,  when  one  passed  good 
hours.  You  will  take  pity  on  me,  will  you  not,  gentlemen  ? 
The  gypsies  stole  her  from  me ;  they  hid  her  from  me  for 
fifteen  years.  I  thought  her  dead.  Fancy,  my  good  friends, 
believed  her  to  be  dead.  I  have  passed  fifteen  years  here,  in 
this  cellar,  without  a  fire  in  winter.  It  is  hard.  The  poor, 
dear  little  shoe !  I  have  cried  so  much  that  the  good  God  has 
heard  me.  This  night  he  has  given  my  daughter  back  to  me. 
It  is  a  miracle  of  the  good  God.  She  was  not  dead.  You 
will  not  take  her  from  me,  I  am  sure.  If  it  were  myself,  I 
would  say  nothing ;  but  she,  a  child  of  sixteen  !  Leave  her 
time  to  see  the  sun !  What  has  she  done  to  you  ?  nothing 
at  all.  Nor  have  I.  If  you  did  but  know  that  she  is  all  I 
have,  that  I  am  old,  that  she  is  a  blessing  which  the  Holy 


THE  LITTLE  SHOE.  293 

Virgin  has  sent  to  me  !  And  then,  you  are  all  so  good ! 
You  did  not  know  that  she  was  my  daughter ;  but  now  you 
do  know  it.  Oh  !  I  love  her !  Monsieur,  the  grand  provost. 
I  would  prefer  a  stab  in  my  own  vitals  to  a  scratch  on  her 
finger  !  You  have  the  air  of  such  a  good  lord  !  What  I  have 
told  you  explains  the  matter,  does  it  not?  Oh  !  if  you  have 
had  a  mother,  monsiegneur  !  you  are  the  captain,  leave  me  my 
child !  Consider  that  I  pray  you  on  my  knees,  as  one  prays 
to  Jesus  Christ !  I  ask  nothing  of  any  one ;  I  am  from 
Reims,  gentlemen ;  I  own  a  little  field  inherited  from  my 
uncle,  Mahiet  Pradon.  I  am  no  beggar.  I  wish  nothing,  but 
I  do  want  my  child  !  oh  !  I  want  to  keep  my  child !  The 
good  God,  who  is  the  master,  has  not  given  her  back  to  me 
for  nothing !  The  king !  you  say  the  king !  It  would  not 
cause  him  much  pleasure  to  have  my  little  daughter  killed ! 
And  then,  the  king  is  good  !  she  is  my  daughter !  she  is  my 
own  daughter !  She  belongs  not  to  the  king !  she  is  not 
yours  !  I  want  to  go  away  !  we  Avant  to  go  away  !  and  when 
two  women  pass,  one  a  mother  and  the  other  a  daughter,  one 
lets  them  go !  Let  us  pass  !  we  belong  in  Reims.  Oh  !  you 
are  very  good,  messieurs  the  sergeants,  I  love  you  all.  You 
will  not  take  my  dear  little  one,  it  is  impossible  !  It  is 
utterly  impossible,  is  it  not  ?  My  child,  my  child  !  " 

We  will  not  try  to  give  an  idea  of  her  gestures,  her  tone, 
of  the  tears  which  she  swallowed  as  she  spoke,  of  the  hands 
which  she  clasped  and  then  wrung,  of  the  heart-breaking 
smiles,  of  the  swimming  glances,  of  the  groans,  the  sighs,  the 
miserable  and  affecting  cries  which  she  mingled  with  her  dis- 
ordered, wild,  and  incoherent  words.  When  she  became  silent 
Tristan  1'  Hermite  frowned,  but  it  was  to  conceal  a  tear  which 
welled  up  in  his  tiger's  eye.  He  conquered  this  weakness, 
however,  and  said  in  a  curt  tone,  — 

"  The  king  wills  it." 

Then  he  bent  down  to  the  ear  of  Henriet  Cousin,  and  said 
to  him  in  a  very  low  tone,  — 

"  Make  an  end  of  it  quickly  !  "  Possibly,  the  redoubtable 
provost  felt  his  heart  also  failing  him. 

The  executioner  and  the  sergeants  entered  the  cell.     The 


294  NOTRE-TtAME. 

mother  offered  no  resistance,  only  she  dragged  herself  towards 
her  daughter  and  threw  herself  bodily  upon  her. 

The  gypsy  beheld  the  soldiers  approach.  The  horror  of 
death  reanimated  her,  — 

"  Mother ! "  she  shrieked,  in  a  tone  of  indescribable  distress, 
"  Mother !  they  are  coming  !  defend  me  !  '•" 

"  Yes,  my  love,  I  am  defending  you ! "  replied  the  mother, 
in  a  dying  voice ;  and  clasping  her  closely  in  her  arms,  she 
covered  her  with  kisses.  The  two  lying  thus  on  the  earth, 
the  mother  upon  the  daughter,  presented  a  spectacle  worthy 
of  pity. 

Henriet  Cousin  grasped  the  young  girl  by  the  middle  of 
her  body,  beneath  her  beautiful  shoulders.  When  she  felt 
that  hand,  she  cried,  "  Heuh ! "  and  fainted.  The  executioner 
who  was  shedding  large  tears  upon  her,  drop  by  drop,  was 
about  to  bear  her  away  in  his  arms.  He  tried  to  detach  the 
mother,  who  had,  so  to  speak,  knotted  her  hands  around  her 
daughter's  waist ;  but  she  clung  so  strongly  to  her  child,  that 
it  was  impossible  to  separate  them.  Then  Henriet  Cousin 
dragged  the  young  girl  outside  the  cell,  and  the  mother  after 
her.  The  mother's  eyes  were  also  closed. 

At  that  moment,  the  sun  rose,  and  there  was  already  on  the 
Place  a  fairly  numerous  assembly  of  people  who  looked  on 
from  a  distance  at  what  was  being  thus  dragged  along  the 
pavement  to  the  gibbet.  For  that  was  Provost  Tristan's  way 
at  executions.  He  had  a  passion  for  preventing  the  approach 
of  the  curious. 

There  was  no  one  at  the  windows.  Only  at  a  distance,  at 
the  summit  of  that  one  of  the  towers  of  Xotre-Dame  which 
commands  the  Greve,  two  men  outlined  in  black  against  the 
light  morning  sky,  and  who  seemed  to  be  looking  on,  were 
visible. 

Henriet  Cousin  paused  at  the  foot  of  the  fatal  ladder,  with 
that  which  he  was  dragging,  and,  barely  breathing,  with  so 
much  pity  did  the  thing  inspire  him,  he  passed  the  rope 
around  the  lovely  neck  of  the  young  girl.  The  unfortunate 
child  felt  the  horrible  touch  of  the  hemp.  She  raised  her  eye- 
lids, and  saw  the  fleshless  arm  of  the  stone  gallows  extended 


THE  LITTLE  SHOE.  295 

above  Ir-r  head.  Then  slie  shook  herself  and  shrieked  in  a 
loud  and  heartrending  voice  :  "  No  !  no  !  I  will  not !  "  Her 
mother,  whose  head  was  buried  and  concealed  in  her  daugh- 
ter's garments,  said  not  a  word ;  only  her  whole  body  could  be 
seen  to  quiver,  and  she  was  heard  to  redouble  her  kisses  on 
her  child.  The  executioner  took  advantage  of  this  moment  to 
hastily  loose  the  arms  with  which  she  clasped  the  condemned 
girl.  Either  through  exhaustion  or  despair,  she  let  him  have 
his  way.  Then  he  took  the  young  girl  on  his  shoulder,  from 
which  the  charming  creature  hung,  gracefully  bent  over  his 
large  head.  Then  he  set  his  foot  on  the  ladder  in  order  to 
ascend. 

At  that  moment,  the  mother  who  was  crouching  on  the 
pavement,  opened  her  eyes  wide.  Without  uttering  a  cry,  she 
raised  herself  erect  with  a  terrible  expression ;  then  she  flung 
herself  upon  the  hand  of  the  executioner,  like  a  beast  on  its 
prey,  and  bit  it.  It  was  done  like  a  flash  of  lightning.  The 
headsman  howled  with  pain.  Those  near  by  rushed  up. 
With  difficulty  they  withdrew  his  bleeding  hand  from  the 
mother's  teeth.  She  preserved  a  profound  silence.  They 
thrust  her  back  with  much  brutality,  and  noticed  that  her 
head  fell  heavily  on  the  pavement.  They  raised  her,  she  fell 
back  again.  She  was  dead. . 

The  executioner,  who  had  not  loosed  his  hold  on  the  young 
girl,  began  to  ascend  the  ladder  once  more. 


CHAPTEE   II. 

THE    BEAUTIFUL    CREATURE    CLAD    IN    WHITE.       (Dante.) 

WHEN  Quasimodo  saw  that  the  cell  was  empty,  that  the 
gypsy  was  no  longer  there,  that  while  he  had  been  defending 
her  she  had  been  abducted,  he  grasped  his  hair  with  both 
hands  and  stamped  with  surprise  and  pain ;  then  he  set  out 
to  run  through  the  entire  church  seeking  his  Bohemian,  howl- 
ing strange  cries  to  all  the  corners  of  the  walls,  strewing  his 
red  hair  on  the  pavement.  It  was  just  at  the  moment  when 
the  king's  archers  were  making  their  victorious  entrance  into 
Notre-Dame,  also  in  search  of  the  gypsy.  Quasimodo,  poor, 
deaf  fellow,  aided  them  in  their  fatal  intentions,  without  sus- 
pecting it ;  he  thought  that  the  outcasts  were  the  gypsy's 
enemies.  He  himself  conducted  Tristan  1'Hermite  to  all  pos- 
sible hiding-places,  opened  to  him  the  secret  doors,  the  double 
bottoms  of  the  altars,  the  rear  sacristries.  If  the  unfortunate 
girl  had  still  been  there,  it  would  have  been  he  himself  who 
would  have  delivered  her  up. 

When  the  fatigue  of  finding  nothing  had  disheartened 
Tristan,  who  was  not  easily  discouraged,  Quasimodo  con- 
tinued the  search  alone.  He  made  the  tour  of  the  church 
twenty  times,  length  and  breadth,  up  and  down,  ascending 
and  descending,  running,  calling,  shouting,  peeping,  rummag- 
ing, ransacking,  thrusting  his  head  into  every  hole,  pushing  a 
torch  under  every  vault,  despairing,  mad.  A  male  who  has 
lost  his  female  is  no  more  roaring  nor  more  haggard. 

296 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  CREATURE  CLAD  IN  WHITE.      297 

At  last  when  he  was  sure,  perfectly  sure  that  she  was  no 
longer  there,  that  all  was  at  an  end,  that  she  had  been 
snatched  from  him,  he  slowly  mounted  the  staircase  to  the 
towers,  that  staircase  which  he  had  ascended  with  so  much 
eagerness  and  triumph  on  the  day  when  he  had  saved  her. 
He  passed  those  same  places  once  more  with  drooping  head, 
voiceless,  tearless,  almost  breathless.  The  church  was  again 
deserted,  and  had  fallen  back  into  its  silence.  The  archers 
had  quitted  it  to  track  the  sorceress  in  the  city.  Quasimodo, 
left  alone  in  that  vast  Notre-Dame,  so  besieged  and  tumultu- 
ous but  a  short  time  before,  once  more  betook  himself  to  the 
cell  where  the  gypsy  had  slept  for  so  many  weeks  under  his 
guardianship. 

As  he  approached  it,  he  fancied  that  he  might,  perhaps,  find 
her  there.  When,  at  the  turn  of  the  gallery  which  opens  on 
the  roof  of  the  side  aisles,  he  perceived  the  tiny  cell  with  its 
little  window  and  its  little  door  crouching  beneath  a  great 
flying  buttress  like  a  bird's  nest  under  a  branch,  the  poor 
man's  heart  failed  him,  and  he  leaned  against  a  pillar  to  keep 
from  falling.  He  imagined  that  she  might  have  returned 
thither,  that  some  good  genius  had,  no  doubt,  brought  her 
back,  that  this  chamber  was  too  tranquil,  too  safe,  too  charm- 
ing for  her  not  to  be  there,  and  he  dared  not  take  another  step 
for  fear  of  destroying  his  illusion.  "  Yes,"  he  said  to  himself, 
"perchance  she  is  sleeping,  or  praying.  I  must  not  disturb 
her." 

At  length  he  summoned  up  courage,  advanced  on  tiptoe, 
looked,  entered.  Empty.  The  cell  was  still  empty.  The 
unhappy  deaf  man  walked  slowly  round  it,  lifted  the  bed  and 
looked  beneath  it,  as  though  she  might  be  concealed  between 
the  pavement  and  the  mattress,  then  he  shook  his  head  and  re- 
mained stupefied.  All  at  once,  he  crushed  his  torch  under  his 
foot,  and,  without  uttering  a  word,  without  giving  vent  to  a 
sigh,  he  flung  himself  at  full  speed,  head  foremost  against  the 
wall,  and  fell  fainting  on  the  floor. 

When  he  recovered  his  senses,  he  threw  himself  on  the  bed 
and  rolling  about,  he  kissed  frantically  the  place  where  the 
young  girl  had  slept  and  which  was  still  warm ;  he  remained 


298  NOTRE-DA1IE. 

there  for  several  moments  as  motionless  as  though  he  were 
about  to  expire;  then  he  rose,  dripping  with  perspiration, 
panting,  mad,  and  began  to  beat  his  head  against  the  wall 
with  the  frightful  regularity  of  the  clapper  of  his  bells,  and 
the  resolution  of  a  man  determined  to  kill  himself.  At  length 
he  fell  a  second  time,  exhausted ;  he  dragged  himself  on  his 
knees  outside  the  cell,  and  crouched  down  facing  the  door,  in 
an  attitude  of  astonishment. 

He  remained  thus  for  more  than  an  hour  without  making  a 
movement,  with  his  eye  fixed  on  the  deserted  cell,  more 
gloomy,  and  more  pensive  than  a  mother  seated  between  an 
empty  cradle  and  a  full  coffin.  He  uttered  not  a  word  ;  only 
at  long  intervals,  a  sob  heaved  his  body  violently,  but  it  was 
a  tearless  sob,  like  summer  lightning  which  makes  no  noise. 

It  appears  to  have  been  then,  that,  seeking  at  the  bottom 
of  his  lonely  thoughts  for  the  unexpected  abductor  of  the 
gypsy,  he  thought  of  the  archdeacon.  He  remembered  that 
Dom  Claude  alone  possessed  a  key  to  the  staircase  leading 
to  the  cell ;  he  recalled  his  nocturnal  attempts  on  the  young 
girl,  in  the  first  of  which  he,  Quasimodo,  had  assisted,  the 
second  of  which  he  had  prevented.  He  recalled  a  thousand 
details,  and  soon  he  no  longer  doubted  chat  the  archdeacon 
had  taken  the  gypsy.  Nevertheless,  such  was  his  respect  for 
the  priest,  such  his  gratitude,  his  devotion,  his  love  for  this 
man  had  taken  such  deep  root  in  his  heart,  that  they  resisted, 
even  at  this  moment,  the  talons  of  jealousy  and  despair. 

He  reflected  that  the  archdeacon  had  done  this  tiling,  and 
the  wrath  of  blood  and  death  which  it  would  have  evoked  in 
him  against  any  other  person,  turned  in  the  poor  deaf  man, 
from  the  moment  when  Claude  Frollo  was  in  question,  into  an 
increase  of  grief  and  sorrow. 

At  the  moment  when  his  thought  was  thus  fixed  upon  the 
priest,  while  the  daybreak  was  whitening  the  flying  buttresses, 
he  perceived  on  the  highest  story  of  Notre-Dame,  at  the  angle 
formed  by  the  external  balustrade  as  it  makes  the  turn  of  the 
chancel,  a  figure  walking.  This  figure  was  coming  towards 
him.  He  recognized  it.  It  was  the  archdeacon. 

Claude  was  walking  with  a  slow,  grave  step.     He   did  not 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  CEEATUEE  CLAD  IN  WHITE.      299 

look  before  him  as  he  walked,  he  was  directing  his  course 
towards  the  northern  tower,  but  his  face  was  turned  aside 
towards  the  right  bank  of  the  Seine,  and  he  held  his  head 
high,  as  though  trying  to  see  something  over  the  roofs.  The 
owl  often  assumes  this  oblique  attitude.  It  flies  towards  one 
point  and  looks  towards  another.  In  this  manner  the  priest 
passed  above  Quasimodo  without  seeing  him. 

The  deaf  man,  who  had  been  petrified  by  this  sudden  appa- 
rition, beheld  him  disappear  through  the  door  of  the  staircase 
to  the  north  tower.  The  reader  is  aware  that  this  is  the  tower 
from  which  the  Hotel-de-Ville  is  visible.  Quasimodo  rose  and 
followed  the  archdeacon. 

Quasimodo  ascended  the  tower  staircase  for  the  sake  of 
ascending  it,  for  the  sake  of  seeing  why  the  priest  was  ascend- 
ing it.  Moreover,  the  poor  bellringer  did  not  know  what  he 
(Quasimodo)  should  do,  what  he  should  say,  what  he  wished. 
He  was  full  of  fury  and  full  of  fear.  The  archdeacon  and  the 
gypsy  had  come  into  conflict  in  his  heart. 

When  he  reached  the  summit  of  the  tower,  before  emerging 
from  the  shadow  of  the  staircase  and  stepping  upon  the  plat- 
form, he  cautiously  examined  the  position  of  the  priest.  The 
priest's  back  was  turned  to  him.  There  is  an  openwork  balus- 
trade which  surrounds  the  platform  of  the  bell  tower.  The 
priest,  whose  eyes  looked  down  upon  the  toAvn,  was  resting 
his  breast  on  that  one  of  the  four  sides  of  the  balustrades 
which  looks  upon  the  Pont  Xotre-Dame. 

Quasimodo,  advancing  with  the  tread  of  a  wolf  behind  him, 
went  to  see  what  he  was  gazing  at  thus. 

The  priest's  attention  was  so  absorbed  elsewhere  that  he 
did  not  hear  the  deaf  man  walking  behind  him. 

Paris  is  a  magnificent  and  charming  spectacle,  and  espe- 
cially at  that  day,  viewed  from  the  top  of  the  towers  of  Notre- 
Dame,  in  the  fresh  light  of  a  summer  dawn.  The  day  might 
have  been  in  July.  The  sky  was  perfectly  serene.  Some 
tardy  stars  were  fading  away  at  various  points,  and  there  was 
a  very  brilliant  one  in  the  east,  in  the  brightest  part  of  the 
heavens.  The  sun  was  about  to  appear ;  Paris  was  beginning 
to  move.  A  very  white  and  very  pure  light  brought  out 


300  NOTRE-DAHE. 

vividly  to  the  eye  all  the  outlines  that  its  thousands  of  houses 
present  to  the  east.  The  giant  shadow  of  the  towers  (leaped 
from  roof  to  roof,^from  one  end  of  the  great  city  to  the  other. 
There  were  several  quarters  from  which  were  already  heard 
voices  and  noisy  sounds.  Here  the  stroke  of  a  bell,  there  the 
stroke  of  a  hammer,  beyond,  the  complicated  clatter  of  a  cart 
in  motion. 

Already  several  columns  of  smoke  were  being^belched  forth 
from  the  chimneys^ scattered  over  the  whole  surface  of  roofs, 
(as  through  the  fissures  of  an  immense  sulphurous  crater. 
The  river,  which  ruffles  its  waters  against  the  arches  of  so 
many  bridges,  against  the  points  of  so  many  islands,  was 
(wavering  with  silvery  folds^  Around  the  city,  outside  the 
ramparts,  sight  was  lost  in  a  great  circle  of  fleecy  vapors 
through  which  one  confusedly  distinguished  the  indefinite 
line  of  the  plains,  and  the  graceful  swell  of  the  heights.  All 
sorts  of  floating  sounds  were  dispersed  over  this  half-awakened 
city.  Towards  the  east,  the  morning  breeze  chased  a  few  soft 
white  bits  of  wool  torn  from  the  misty  fleece  of  the  hills. 

In  the  Parvis,  some  good  women,  who  had  their  milk  jugs 
in  their  hands,  were  pointing  out  to  each  other,  with  astonish- 
ment, the  singular  dilapidation  of  the  great  door  of  Notre- 
Dame,  and  the  two  solidified  streams  of  lead  in  the  crevices 
of  the  stone.  This  was  all  that  remained  of  the  tempest  of 
the  night.  The  bonfire  lighted  between  the  towers  by  Quasi- 
modo had  died  out.  Tristan  had  already  cleared  up  the  Place, 
and  had  the  dead  thrown  into  the  Seine.  Kings  like  Louis 
XI.  are  careful  to  clean  the  pavement  quickly  after  a  massacre. 

Outside  the  balustrade  of  the  tower,  directly  under  the 
point  where  the  priest  had  paused,  there  was  one  of  those 
fantastically  carved  stone  gutters  with  which  Gothic  edifices 
bristle,  and,  in  a  crevice  of  that  gutter,  two  pretty  wallflowers 
in  blossom,  shaken  out  and  vivified,  as  it  were,  by  the  breath 
of  air,  made  frolicsome  salutations  to  each  other.  Above  the 
towers,  on  high,  far  away  in  the  depths  of  the  sky,  the  cries 
of  little  birds  were  heard. 

But  the  priest  was  not  listening  to,  was  not  looking  at,  any- 
thing of  all  this.  He  was  one  of  the  men  for  whom  there  are 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  CREATURE  CLAD  IN  WHITE.      301 

no  mornings,  no  birds,  no  flowers.  In  that  immense  horizon, 
which  assumed  so  many  aspects  about  him,  his  contemplation 
was  concentrated  on  a  single  point. 

Quasimodo  was  burning  to  ask  him  what  he  had  done  with 
the  gypsy ;  but  the  archdeacon  seemed  to  be  out  of  the  world 
at  that  moment.  He  was  evidently  in  one  of  those  violent 
moments  of  life  when  one  would  not  feel  the  earth  crumble. 
He  remained  motionless  and  silent,  with  his  eyes  steadily 
fixed  on  a  certain  point ;  and  there  was  something  so  terrible 
about  this  silence  and  immobility  that  the  savage  bellringer 
shuddered  before  it  and  dared  not  come  in  contact  with  it. 
Only,  and  this  was  also  one  way  of  interrogating  the  arch- 
deacon, he  followed  the  direction  of  his  vision,  and  in  this 
way  the  glance  of  the  unhappy  deaf  man  fell  upon  the  Place 
de  Greve. 

Thus  he  saw  what  the  priest  was  looking  at.  The  ladder 
was  erected  near  the  permanent  gallows.  There  Avere  some 
people  and  many  soldiers  in  the  Place.  A  man  was  dragging 
a  white  thing,  from  which  hung  something  black,  along  the 
pavement.  This  man  halted  at  the  foot  of  the  gallows. 

Here  something  took  place  which  Quasimodo  could  not  see 
very  clearly.  It  was  not  because  his  only  eye  had  not  pre- 
served its  long  range,  but  there  was  a  group  of  soldiers  which 
prevented  his  seeing  everything.  Moreover,  at  that  moment 
the  sun  appeared,  and  such  a  flood  of  light  overflowed  the 
horizon  that  one  would  have  said  that  all  the  points  in  Paris, 
spires,  chimneys,  gables,  had  simultaneously  taken  fire. 

Meanwhile,  the  man  began  to  mount  the  ladder.  Then 
Quasimodo  saAV  him  again  distinctly.  He  was  carrying  a 
woman  on  his  shoulder,  a  young  girl  dressed  in  white ;  that 
young  girl  had  a  noose  about  her  neck.  Quasimodo  recog- 
nized her. 

It  was  she. 

The  man  reached  the  top  of  the  ladder.  There  he  arranged 
the  noose.  Here  the  priest,  in  order  to  see  the  better,  knelt 
upon  the  balustrade. 

All  at  once  the  man  kicked  away  the  ladder  abruptly,  and 
Quasimodo,  who  had  not  breathed  for  several  moments,  beheld 


302  NOTRE-DAME. 

the  unhappy  child  dangling  at  the  end  of  the  rope  two  fathoms 
above  the  pavement,  with  the  man  squatting  on  her  shoulders. 
The  rope  made  several  gyrations  on  itself,  and  Quasimodo 
beheld  horrible  convulsions  run  along  the  gypsy's  body.  The 
priest,  on  his  side,  with  outstretched  neck  and  eyes  starting 
from  his  head,  contemplated  this  horrible  group  of  the  man 
and  the  young  girl,  — the  spider  and  the  fly. 

At  the  moment  when  it  was  most  horrible,  the  laugh  of  a 
demon,  a  laugh  which  one  can  only  give  vent  to  Athen  one  is 
no  longer  human,  burst  forth  on  the  priest's  livid  face. 

Quasimodo  did  not  hear  that  laugh,  but  he  saw  it. 

The  bellringer  retreated  several  paces  behind  the  archdea- 
con, and  suddenly  hurling  himself  upon  him  with  fury,  with 
his  huge  hands  he  pushed  him  by  the  back  over  into  the  abyss 
over  which  Dom  Claude  was  leaning. 

The  priest  shrieked :  "Damnation  ! "  and  fell. 

The  spout,  aboVe  which  he  had  stood,  arrested  him  in  his 
fall.  He  clung  to  it  with  desperate  hands,  and,  at  the  moment 
when  he  opened  his  mouth  to  utter  a  second  cry,  he  beheld 
the  formidable  and  avenging  face  of  Quasimodo  thrust  over 
the  edge  of  the  balustrade  above  his  head. 

Then  he  was  silent. 

The  abyss  was  there  below  him.  A  fall  of  more  than  two 
hundred  feet  and  the  pavement. 

In  this  terrible  situation,  the  archdeacon  said  not  a  word, 
uttered  not  a  groan.  He  merely  writhed  upon  the  spout, 
with  incredible  efforts  to  climb  up  again ;  but  his  hands  had 
no  hold  on  the  granite,  his  feet  slid  along  the  blackened  wall 
without  catching  fast.  People  who  have  ascended  the  towers 
of  Xotre-Dame  know  that  there  is  a  swell  of  the  stone  imme- 
diately beneath  the  balustrade.  It  was  on  this  retreating 
angle  that  miserable  archdeacon  exhausted  himself.  He  had 
not  to  deal  with  a  perpendicular  wall,  but  with  one  which 
sloped  away  beneath  him. 

Quasimodo  had  but  to  stretch  out  his  hand  in  order  to  draw 
him  from  the  gulf;  but  he  did  not  even  look  at  him.  He  was 
looking  at  the  Greve.  He  was  looking  at  the  gallows.  He 
was  looking  at  the  gypsy. 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  CREATURE  CLAD  IN  WHITE.      303 

The  deaf  man  was  leaning,  with  his  elbows  on  the  balus- 
trade, at  the  spot  where  the  archdeacon  had  been  a  moment 
before,  and  there,  never  detaching  his  gaze  from  the  only 
object  which  existed  for  him  in  the  world  at  that  moment,  he 
remained  motionless  and  mute,  like  a  man  struck  by  lightning, 
and  a  long  stream  of  tears  flowed  in  silence  from  that  eye 
which,  lip  to  that  time,  had  never  shed  but  one  tear. 

Meanwhile,  the  archdeacon  was  panting.  His  bald  brow 
was  dripping  with  perspiration,  his  nails  were  bleeding 
against  the  stones,  his  knees  were  flayed  by  the  wall. 

He'  heard  his  cassock,  which  was  caught  on  the  spout,  crack 
and  rip  at  every  jerk  that  he  gave  it.  To  complete  his  mis- 
fortune, this  spout  ended  in  a  leaden  pipe  which  bent  under 
the  weight  of  his  body.  The  archdeacon  felt  this  pipe  slowly 
giving  way.  The  miserable  man  said  to  himself  that,  when 
his  hands  should  be  worn  out  with  fatigue,  when  his  cassock 
should  tear  asunder,  when  the  lead  should  give  way,  he  would 
be  obliged  to  fall,  and  terror  seized  upon  his  very  vitals.  Now 
and  then  he  glanced  wildly  at  a  sort  of  narrow  shelf  formed, 
ten  feet  lower  down,  by  projections  of  the  sculpture,  and  he 
prayed  heaven,  from  the  depths  of  his  distressed  soul,  that  he 
might  be  allowed  to  finish  his  life,  were  it  to  last  two  cen- 
turies, on  that  space  two  feet  square.  Once,  he  glanced 
below  him  into  the  Place,  into  the  abyss  ;  the  head  which 
he  raised  again  had  its  eyes  closed  and  its  hair  standing 
erect. 

There  was  something  frightful  in  the  silence  of  these  two 
men.  While  the  archdeacon  agonized  in  this  terrible  fashion 
a  few  feet  below  him,  Quasimodo  wept  and  gazed  at  the  Greve. 

The  archdeacon,  seeing  that  all  his  exertions  served  only  to 
weaken  the  fragile  support  which  remained  to  him,  decided 
to  remain  quiet.  There  he  hung,  embracing  the  gutter,  hardly 
breathing,  no  longer  stirring,  making  no  longer  any  other 
movements  than  that  mechanical  convulsion  of  the  stomach, 
which  one  experiences  in  dreams  when  one  fancies  himself 
falling.  His  fixed  eyes  were  wide  open  with  a  stare.  He  lost 
ground  little  by  little,  nevertheless,  his  fingers  slipped  along 
the  spout ;  he  became  more  and  more  conscious  of  the  feeble- 


304  NOTRE-DAME. 

ness  of  his  arms  and  the  weight  of  his  body.  The  curve  of 
the  lead  which  sustained  him  inclined  more  and  more  each 
instant  towards  the  abyss. 

He  beheld  below  him,  a  frightful  thing,  the  roof  of  Saint- 
Jean  le  Rond,  as  small  as  a  card  folded  in  two.  He  gazed  at 
the  impressive  carvings,  one  by  one,  of  the  tower,  suspended 
like  himself  over  the  precipice,  but  without  terror  for  them- 
selves or  pity  for  him.  All  was  stone  around  him  ;  before  his 
eyes,  gaping  monsters ;  below,  quite  at  the  bottom,  in  the 
Place,  the  pavement ;  above  his  head,  Quasimodo  weeping. 

In  the  Parvis  there  were  several  groups  of  curious  good 
people,  who  were  tranquilly  seeking  to  divine  who  the  mad- 
man could  be  who  was  amusing  himself  in  so  strange  a  man- 
ner. The  priest  heard  them  saying,  for  their  voices  reached 
him,  clear  and  shrill :  "  Why,  he  will  break  his  neck  !  " 

Quasimodo  wept. 

At  last  the  archdeacon,  foaming  with  rage  and  despair,  un- 
derstood that  all  was  in  vain.  Nevertheless,  he  collected  all 
the  strength  which  remained  to  him  for  a  final  effort.  He 
stiffened  himself  upon  the  spout,  pushed  against  the  wall  with 
both  his  knees,  clung  to  a  crevice  in  the  stones  with  his  hands, 
and  succeeded  in  climbing  back  with  one  foot,  perhaps ;  but 
this  effort  made  the  leaden  beak  on  which  he  rested  bend 
abruptly.  His  cassock  burst  open  at  the  same  time.  Then, 
feeling  everything  give  way  beneath  him,  with  nothing  but 
his  stiffened  and  failing  hands  to  support  him,  the  unfortunate 
man  closed  his  eyes  and  let  go  of  the  spout.  He  fell. 

Quasimodo  watched  him  fall. 

A  fall  from  such  a  height  is  seldom  perpendicular.  The 
archdeacon,  launched  into  space,  fell  at  first  head  foremost, 
with  outspread  hands  ;  then  he  whirled  over  and  over  many 
times  ;  the  wind  blew  him  upon  the  roof  of  a  house,  where 
the  unfortunate  man  began  to  break  up.  Nevertheless,  he  was 
not  dead  when  he  reached  there.  The  bellringer  saw  him  still 
endeavor  to  cling  to  a  gable  with  his  nails ;  but  the  surface 
sloped  too  much,  and  he  had  no  more  strength.  He  slid  nip- 
idly  along  the  roof  like  a  loosened  tile,  and  dashed  upon  the 
pavement.  There  he  no  longer  moved. 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  CREATURE  CLAD  IN  WHITE.      305 

Then  Quasimodo  raised  his  eyes  to  the  gypsy,  whose  body 
he  beheld  hanging  from  the  gibbet,  quivering  far  away  beneath 
her  white  robe  with  the  last  shudderings  of  anguish,  then  he 
dropped  them  on  the  archdeacon,  stretched  out  at  the  base  of 
the  tower,  and  no  longer  retaining  the  human  form,  and  he 
said,  with  a  sob  which  heaved  his  deep  chest, — 

"  Oh  !  all  that  I  have  ever  loved ! " 


CHAPTER   III. 


THE    MARRIAGE    OF    PHCEBTJS. 

TOWARDS  evening  on  that  day,  when  the  judiciary  officers 
of  the  bishop  came  to  pick  up  from  the  pavement  of  the  Par- 
vis  the  dislocated  corpse  of  the  archdeacon,  Quasimodo  had 
disappeared. 

A  great  many  rumors  were  in  circulation  with  regard  to  this 
adventure.  No  one  doubted  but  that  the  day  had  come  when, 
in  accordance  with  their  compact,  Quasimodo,  that  is  to  say, 
the  devil,  was  to  carry  off  Claude  Frollo,  that  is  to  say,  the 
sorcerer.  It  was  presumed  that  he  had  broken  the  body 
when  taking  the  soul,  like  monkeys  who  break  the  shell  to 
get  at  the  nut. 

This  is  why  the  archdeacon  was  not  interred  in  consecrated 
earth. 

Louis  XI.  died  a  year  later,  in  the  month  of  August,  1483. 

As  for  Pierre  Gringoire,  he  succeeded  in  saving  the  goat, 
and  he  won  success  in  tragedy.  It  appears  that,  after  having 
tasted  astrology,  philosophy,  architecture,  hermetics,  —  all 
vanities,  he  returned  to  tragedy,  vainest  pursuit  of  all.  This 
is  what  he  called  "coming  to  a  tragic  end."  This  is  what  is  to 
be  read,  on  the  subject  of  his  dramatic  triumphs,  in  1483,  in 
the  accounts  of  the  "  Ordinary : "  "  To  Jehan  Marchand  and 
Pierre  Gringoire,  carpenter  and  composer,  who  have  made  and 
composed  the  mystery  made  at  the  Chatelet  of  Paris,  at  the 

300 


THE  MARRIAGE   OF  PH(EKUS.  307 

entry  of  Monsieur  the  Legate,  and  have  ordered  the  person- 
ages, clothed  and  dressed  the  same,  as  in  the  said  mystery 
was  required ;  arid  likewise,  for  having  made  the  scaffoldings 
thereto  necessary  ;  aryl  for  this  deed,  —  one  hundred  livres." 

Phoebus  de  Chuteaupers  also  came  to  a  tragic  end.     He  mar- 
ried. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  MARKIAGE  OF  QUASIMODO. 

WE  have  just  said  that  Quasimodo  disappeared  from  ^"otre- 
Dame  on  the  day  of  the  gypsy's  and  of  the  archdeacon's  death. 
He  was  not  seen  again,  in  fact ;  no  one  knew  what  had  be- 
come of  him. 

During  the  night  which  followed  the  execution  of  la  Esmer- 
alda,  the  night  men  had  detached  her  body  from  the  gibbet, 
and  had  carried  it,  according  to  custom,  to  the  cellar  of  Mont- 
faucon. 

Montfaucon  was,  as  Sauval  says,  "the  most  ancient  and  the 
most  superb  gibbet  in  the  kingdom."  Between  the  fauboiirgs 
of  the  Temple  and  Saint  Martin,  about  a  hundred  and  sixty 
toises  from  the  walls  of  Paris,  a  few  bow  shots  from  La 
Courtille,  there  was  to  be  seen  on  the  crest  of  a  gentle,  almost 
imperceptible  eminence,  but  sufficiently  elevated  to  be  seen 
for  several  leagues  round  about,  an  edifice  of  strange  form, 
bearing  considerable  resemblance  to  a  Celtic  cromlech,  and 
where  also  human  sacrifices  were  offered. 

Let  the  reader  picture  to  himself,  crowning  a  limestone  hil- 
lock, an  oblong  mass  of  masonry  fifteen  feet  in  height,  thirty 
wide,  forty  long,  with  a  gate,  an  external  railing  and  a  plat- 
form ;  on  this  platform  sixteen  enormous  pillars  of  rough 
hewn  stone,  thirty  feet  in  height,  arranged  in  a  colonnade 
round  three  of  the  four  sides  of  the  mass  which  support 
them,  bound  together  at  their  summits  by  heavy  beams, 

308 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  QUASIMODO.  309 

whence  hung  chains  at  intervals ;  on  all  these  chains,  skele- 
tons; in  the  vicinity,  on  the  plain,  a  stone  cross  and  two 
gibbets  of  secondary  importance,  which  seemed  to  have  sprung 
up  as  shoots  around  the  central  gallows ;  above  all  this,  in 
the  sky,  a  perpetual  flock  of  crows ;  that  was  Montfaucon. 

At  the  end  of  the  fifteenth  century,  the  formidable  gibbet 
which  dated  from  1328,  was  already  very  much  dilapidated ; 
the  beams  were  wormeaten,  the  chains  rusted,  the  pillars 
green  with  mould ;  the  layers  of  hewn  stone  were  all  cracked 
at  their  joints,  and  grass  was  growing  on  that  platform  which 
no  feet  touched.  The  monument  made  a  horrible  profile 
against  the  sky ;  especially  at  night  when  there  was  a  little 
moonlight  on  those  white  skulls,  or  when  the  breeze  of  even- 
ing brushed  the  chains  and  the  skeletons,  and  swayed  all  these 
in  the  darkness.  The  presence  of  this  gibbet  sufficed  to 
render  gloomy  all  the  surrounding  places. 

The  mass  of  masonry  which  served  as  foundation  to  the 
odious  edifice  was  hollow.  A  huge  cellar  had  been  con- 
structed there,  closed  by  an  old  iron  grating,  which  was  out 
of  order,  into  which  were  cast  not  only  the  human  remains, 
which  were  taken  from  the  chains  of  Montfaucon,  but  also 
the  bodies  of  all  the  unfortiinates  executed  on  the  other  per- 
manent gibbets  of  Paris.  To  that  deep  charnel-house,  where 
so  many  human  remains  and  so  many  crimes  have  rotted  in 
company,  many  great  ones  of  this  world,  many  innocent  people, 
have  contributed  their  bones,  from  Enguerrand  de  Marigni,  the 
first  victim,  and  a  just  man,  to  Admiral  de  Coligni,  who  was 
its  last,  and  who  was  also  a  just  man. 

As  for  the  mysterious  disappearance  of  Quasimodo,  this 
is  all  that  we  have  been  able  to  discover. 

About  eighteen  months  or  two  'years  after  the  events  which 
terminate  this  story,  when  search  was  made  in  that  cavern  for 
the  body  of  Olivier  le  Daim,  who  had  been  hanged  two  days 
previously,  and  to  whom  Charles  VIII.  had  granted  the  favor 
of  being  buried  in  Saint  Laurent,  in  better  company,  they 
found  among  all  those  hideous  carcasses  two  skeletons,  one 
of  which  held  the  other  in  its  embrace.  One  of  these  skele- 
tons, which  was  that  of  a  woman,  still  had  a  few  strips  of  a 


310 


NOTHE-DAME. 


garment  which  had  once  been  white,  and  around  her  neck  was 
to  be  seen  a  string  of  adrezarach  beads  with  a  little  silk  bag 
ornamented  with  green  glass,  which  was  open  and  empty. 
These  objects  were  of  so  little  value  that  the  executioner  had 
probably  not  cared  for  them.  The  other,  which  held  this  one 
in  a  close  embrace,  was  the  skeleton  of  a  man.  It  was  noticed 
that  his  spinal  column  was  crooked,  his  head  seated  on  his 
shoulder  blades,  and  that  one  leg  was  shorter  than  the  other. 
Moreover,  there  was  no  fracture  of  the  vertebrae  at  the  nape 
of  the  neck,  and  it  was  evident  that  he  had  not  been  hanged. 
Hence,  the  man  to  whom  it  had  belonged  had  come  thither 
and  had  died  there.  When  they  tried  to  detach  the  skeleton 
which  he  held  in  his  embrace,  he  fell  to  dust. 


NOTE 

ADDED  TO  THE  DEFINITIVE  EDITION. 


IT  is  by  mistake  that  this  edition  was  announced  as  aug- 
mented by  many  new  chapters.  The  word  should  have  been 
unpublished.  In  fact,  if  by  new,  newly  made  is  to  be  under- 
stood, the  chapters  added  to  this  edition  are  not  new.  They 
were  written  at  the  same  time  as  the  rest  of  the  work ;  they 
date  from  the  same  epoch,  and  sprang  from  the  same  thought, 
they  have  always  formed  a  part  of  the  manuscript  of  "  Notre- 
Dame-de-Paris."  Moreover,  the  author  cannot  comprehend 
how  fresh  developments  could  be  added  to  a  work  of  this 
character  after  its  completion.  This  is  not  to  be  done  at 
will.  According  to  his  idea,  a  romance  is  born  in  a  manner 
that  is,  in  some  sort,  necessary,  with  all  its  chapters ;  a  drama 
is  born  with  all.  its  scenes,  Think  not  that  there  is  anything 
arbitrary  in  the  numbers  of  parts  of  which  that  whole,  that 
mysterious  microcosm  which  you  call  a  drama  or  a  romance, 
is  composed.  Grafting  and  soldering  take  badly  on  works  of 
this  nature,  which  should  gush  forth  in  a  single  stream  and 
so  remain.  The  thing  once  done,  do  not  change  your  mind, 
do  not  touch  it  up.  The  book  once  published,  the  sex  of  the 
work,  whether  virile  or  not,  has  been  recognized  and  pro- 
claimed ;  when  the  child  has  once  uttered  his  first  cry  he  is 
born,  there  he  is,  he  is  made  so,  neither  father  nor  mother 
can  do  anything,  he  belongs  to  the  air  and  to  the  sun,  let 
him  live  or  die,  such  as  he  is.  Has  your  book  been  a  failure  ? 
So  much  the  worse.  Add  no  chapters  to  an  unsuccessful 
book.  Is  it  incomplete  ?  You  should  have  completed  it 
when  you  conceived  it.  Is  your  tree  crooked  ?  You  cannot 
straighten  it  up.  Is  your  romance  consumptive  ?  Is  your 

311 


312     NOTE  ADDED   TO   THE  DEFINITIVE  EDITION. 

romance  not  capable  of  living  ?  You  cannot  supply  it  with 
the  breath  which  it  lacks.  Has  your  drama  been  born  lame  ? 
Take  my  advice,  and  do  not  provide  it  with  a  wooden  leg. 

Hence  the  author  attaches  particular  importance  to  the 
public  knowing  for  a  certainty  that  the  chapters  here  added 
have  not  been  made  expressly  for  this  reprint.  They  were 
not  published  in  the  preceding  editions  of  the  book  for  a  very 
simple  reason.  At  the  time  when  "  Notre-Dame-de-Paris  "  was 
printed  the  first  time,  the  manuscript  of  these  three  chapters 
had  been  mislaid.  It  was  necessary  to  rewrite  them  or  to 
dispense  with  them.  The  author  considered  that  the  only 
two  of  these  chapters  -which  were  in  the  least  important, 
owing  to  their  extent,  were  chapters  on  art  and  history  which 
in  no  way  interfered  with  the  groundwork  of  the  drama  and 
the  romance,  that  the  public  would  not  notice  their  loss,  and 
that  he,  the  author,  would  alone  be  in  possession  of  the 
secret.  He  decided  to  omit  them,  and  then,  if  the  whole 
truth  must  be  confessed,  his  indolence  shrunk  from  the  task 
of  rewriting  the  three  lost  chapters.  He  would  have  found  it 
a  shorter  matter  to  make  a  new  romance. 

Now  the  chapters  have  been  found,  and  he  avails  himself  of 
the  first  opportunity  to  restore  them  to  their  place. 

This  now,  is  his  entire  work,  such  as  he  dreamed  it,  such 
as  he  made  it,  good  or  bad,  durable  or  fragile,  but  such  as  he 
wishes  it. 

These  recovered  chapters  will  possess  no  doubt,  but  little 
value  in  the  eyes  of  persons,  otherwise  very  judicious,  who 
have  sought  in  "  Notre-Dame-de-Paris  "  only  the  drama,  the 
romance.  But  there  are  perchance,  other  readers,  who  have 
not  found  it  useless  to  study  the  aesthetic  and  philosophic 
thought  concealed  in  this  book,  and  who  have  taken  pleasure, 
while  reading  "  Notre-Dame-de-Paris,"  in  unravelling  beneath 
the  romance  something  else  than  the  romance,  and  in  follow- 
ing (may  we  be  pardoned  these  rather  ambitious  expressions), 
the  system  of  the  historian  and  the  aim  of  the  artist  through 
the  creation  of  the  poet. 

For  such  people  especially,  the  chapters  added  to  this 
edition  will  complete  "  Notre-Dame-de-Paris,"  if  we  admit 


NOTE  ADDED   TO   THE  DEFINITIVE  EDITION.      313 

that  "  Notre-Dame-de-Paris  "  was  worth  the  trouble  of  com- 
pleting. 

In  one  of  these  chapters  on  the  present  decadence  of  archi- 
tecture, and  on  the  death  (in  his  mind  almost  inevitable)  of 
that  king  of  arts,  the  author  expresses  and  develops  an  opinion 
unfortunately  well  rooted  in  him,  and  well  thought  oxit.  But 
he  feels  it  necessary  to  say  here  that  he  earnestly  desires  that 
the  future  may,  some  day,  put  him  in  the  wrong.  He  knows 
that  art  in  all  its  forms  has  everything  to  hope  from  the  new 
generations  whose  genius,  still  in  the  germ,  can  be  heard  gush- 
ing forth  in  our  studios.  The  grain  is  in  the  furrow,  the  har- 
vest will  certainly  be  fine.  He  merely  fears,  and  the  reason 
may  be  seen  in  the  second  volume  of  this  edition,  that  the  sap 
may  have  been  withdrawn  from  that  ancient  soil  of  architec- 
ture which  has  been  for  so  many  centuries  the  best  field  for 
art. 

Nevertheless,  there  are  to-day  in  the  artistic  youth  so  much 
life,  power,  and,  so  to  speak,  predestination,  that  in  our 
schools  of  architecture  in  particular,  at  the  present  time,  the 
professors,  who  are  detestable,  produce,  not  only  unconsciously 
but  even  in  spite  of  themselves,  excellent  pupils ;  quite  the 
reverse  of  that  potter  mentioned  by  Horace,  who  dreamed 
amphorae  and  produced  pots.  Currit  rota,  urcens  exit. 

But,  in  any  case,  whatever  may  be  the  future  of  architec- 
ture, in  whatever  manner  our  young  architects  may  one  day 
solve  the  question  of  their  art,  let  us,  while  waiting  for  new 
monuments,  preserve  the  ancient  monuments.  Let  us,  if  pos- 
sible, inspire  the  nation  with  a  love  for  national  architecture. 
That,  the  author  declares,  is  one  of  the  principal  aims  of  this 
book ;  it  is  one  of  the  principal  aims  of  his  life. 

"  Xotre-Dame-de-Paris  "  has,  perhaps  opened  some  true  per- 
spectives on  the  art  of  the  Middle  Ages,  on  that  marvellous 
art  which  up  to  the  present  time  has  been  unknown  to  some, 
and,  what  is  worse,  misknown  by  others.  But  the  author  is 
far  from  regarding  as  accomplished,  the  task  which  he  has 
voluntarily  imposed  on  himself.  He  has  already  pleaded  on 
more  than  one  occasion,  the  cause  of  our  ancient  architecture, 
he  has  already  loudly  denounced  many  profanations,  many 


314      NOTE  ADDED   TO   THE  DEFINITIVE  EDITION. 

demolitions,  many  impieties.  He  will  not  grow  weary.  He 
has  promised  himself  to  recur  frequently  to  this  subject.  He 
will  return  to  it.  He  will  be  as  indefatigable  in  defending 
our  historical  edifices  as  our  iconoclasts  of  the  schools  and 
academies  are  eager  in  attacking  them ;  for  it  is  a  grievous 
thing  to  see  into  what  hands  the  architecture  of  the  Middle 
Ages  has  fallen,  and  in  what  a  manner  the  botchers  of  plaster 
of  the  present  day  treat  the  ruin  of  this  grand  art.  It  is  even 
a  shame  for  us  intelligent  men  who  see  them  at  work  and  con- 
tent ourselves  with  hooting  them.  And  we  are  not  speaking 
here  merely  of  what  goes  on  in  the  provinces,  but  of  what  is 
done  in  Paris  at  our  very  doors,  beneath  our  windows,  in  the 
great  city,, in  the  lettered  city,  in  the  city  of  the  press,  of  word, 
of  thought.  We  cannot  resist  the  impulse  to  point  out,  in  con- 
cluding this  note,  some  of  the  acts  of  vandalism  which  are 
every  day  planned,  debated,  begun,  continued,  and  successfully 
completed  under  the  eyes  of  the  artistic  public  of  Paris,  face 
to  face  with  criticism,  which  is  disconcerted  by  so  much  au- 
dacity. An  archbishop's  palace  has  just  been  demolished,  an 
edifice  in  poor  taste,  no  great  harm  is  done ;  but  in  a  block 
with  the  archiepiscopal  palace  a  bishop's  palace  has  been  demol- 
ished, a  rare  fragment  of  the  fourteenth  century,  which  the 
demolishing  architect  could  not  distinguish  from  the  rest. 
He  has  torn  up  the  wheat  with  the  tares ;  'tis  all  the  same. 
They  are  talking  of  razing  the  admirable  chapel  of  Vincennes, 
in  order  to  make,  with  its  stones,  some  fortification,  which 
Daumesnil  did  not  need,  however.  While  the  Palais  Bourbon, 
that  wretched  edifice,  is  being  repaired  at  great  expense,  gusts 
of  wind  and  equinoctial  storms  are  allowed  to  destroy  the 
magnificent  painted  windows  of  the  Sainte-Chapelle.  For  the 
last  few  days  there  has  been  a  scaffolding  on  the  tower  of 
Saint  Jacques  de  la  Boucherie  ;  and  one  of  these  mornings  the 
pick  will  be  laid  to  it.  A  mason  has  been  found  to  build  a 
little  white  house  between  the  venerable  towers  of  the  Palais 
de-Justice.  Another  has  been  found  willing  to  prune  away 
Saint-Germain-des-Pres,  the  feudal  abbey  with  three  bell  tow- 
ers. Another  will  be  found,  no  doubt,  capable  of  pulling  down 
Saint-Germain  1'Auxerrois.  All  these  masons  claim  to  be 


NOTE  ADDED   TO   THE  DEFINITIVE  EDITION.      315 

architects,  are  paid  by  the  prefecture  or  from  the  petty  bud- 
get, and  wear  green  coats.  All  the  harm  which  false  taste 
can  inflict  on  good  taste,  they  accomplish.  While  we  write, 
deplorable  spectacle  !  one  of  them  holds  possession  of  the 
Tuileries,  one  of  them  is  giving  Philibert  Delorme  a  scar  across 
the  middle  of  his  face ;  and  it  is  not,  assuredly,  one  of  the 
least  of  the  scandals  of  our  time  to  see  with  what  effrontery 
the  heavy  architecture  of  this  gentleman  is  being  flattened 
over  one  of  the  most  delicate  fa9ades  of  the  Renaissance  ! 

PARIS,  October  20,  1832. 


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